J  E  RE  Ma 


I 


ANNE    DILLON 


^'■N'.'V.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELA 


JEREMY 

'This    i;    a    i\m 


■•iras  u  ^  -".pie.  charming  chronicle  of  the 
months  in  which  Jeremy  passed  from  babyhood 
to  boyhood.  Mr.  Walpob  wntes  of  him  with 
mingled   humor   and    tenderness   and   a   complete 


understanding." 


—  New  York  Times. 


HUGH  WALPOLE 


Hugh  Walpole,  a  descendant  of  Sir  Robert 
Walpole,  is  now,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty- 
four,  at  the  top  of  his  art.  His  first  novel 
was  published  when  he  was  twenty-five. 
He  possesses  wonderful  power  to  make  you 
live  in  the  same  atmosphere  and  be  shaped 


THE   MAN   AND 
H  I  S    W  O  R  K  S 

by  the  same  environment  that  shapes  the  lives  of  his  characters — people  no  more 

fictional,  it  seems,  than  those  with  whom  you  pass  your  daily  life.    In  his  latest 

novels  this  power  becomes  inescapable — you  are  on  the  Russian  battle  line,  you 

walk  the  streets  of  Petrograd  and  know  the  Revolution,  not  because  Walpole  tells 

you  but  because  you  seem  to  be  actually  there. 

Walpole,  a  son  of  the  Bishop  of  Edinburgh,  grew  up  in  a  little  seaside  village  in 

Cornwall,  took  an  honors  degree  in  History  at  Cambridge,  and  started  life  as  a 

master  in  a  boys'  school.    Then  he  went  up  to  London,  did  journalism  for  a  living, 

and  began  to  write  novels. 

Purinj?  the  early  years  of  the  war  Walpole  served  with  the  Russian  Red  Cross. 

Then  the  Engli.sh  Government  sent  him  to  Petrograd  to  help  promote  pro-British 

sentiment. 

These  years  of  service  in  Russia,  for  which  he  received  the  Georgian  medal,  made 

upon  him  the  indellible  impressions  which  he  transferred  so  vividly  to  the  pages  of 

his  epics  of  Russian  life  that  they  have  been  truthfully  called  "Russian  novels  in 

Engli.sh." 


i^ii  tTfitpole's  "Jeremy"  Tliought 
to  Be  Au^^obioffranhical. 

'Jeremy,"  Hugh  Walpole's  latest 
book,  just  published   by  George  H. 
Doran   comDany.   is   the  story  of   a 
bov  of    8   who   passed    that   nart  of 
his    existence    which    Mr.    Walpole 
has  related  in  the  cathedral  town  of 
Polchester.     The  London  Snectator 
has''^  theory  that  Hugh  Walpole  has 
pS    a  us  some  of  the  memories  of 
1-       >wn  childhood     :n     "Jeremv" — 
"Je»emv  Cole."  the  Spectator  points 
out,'  "was  born  in  the  s^ime  vear  as 
Mr.  iWalnole,  and  thoneh  the  stor^' 
is  not  written  in  the  first  person, 
the  freauent  use  of     the     pronoun 
'our'  su.egests  at  any  rate  an  inter- 
mittent   :dentificatioTi    of    the   hero 
with  the  narrator.     Manv  of  the  in- 
Icidents   bear    a    stamp    of    veracity 
which  seems  to  r"le  out  invention; 
but  the  point  need  not  be  labored, 
and  the  charge  of  esrotiam   fa:ls  In 
view  of  the  fact  that  Jeremy  is  very 
far  from  being  a     person     of     in- 
genuous  vouth   or   luvenile   beauty 
or    lovableness."      Jeremv.    as    the 
Pnectator  discovered  has  not  a  per- 
fpct    character.      Indeed    it   is   very 
obvious  that  be  's  a  stubborn  little 
bov  who  teases  bis  nurs;^    the  Jam- 
T»ot,  arid  bis  sisters  on   everv  occa- 
Ton      H's  father  is  a  cl'^m^vrnan  and 
fiUboiip'b   Jeromv  is  vigilantlv  pro- 
tpoted  from  the  world,  the  flesh  and 
the  de'"il.     be     frenuentlv     escanes 
from  the  staid  respectabnittr  of  his 
familv    and     go^s    off    adventuring 
wi+'h   hi<5  dng  HamlPt,  sarn.nling  the 
delights  of  a   rountrv  fair,  the  cas- 
iml    c'^n versa tinn    of    a    saHor    Cwho 
PfforwQfds  rob^^ed  bis  fa+bpr")    and 
follnwinp    anv    other      avenue      of 
I  nmr«ement  which     Polchester     of- 
fered. 


About    Hugh   Walpole. 

Hugh   Walpole,    the   young   Eng- 
lish  novelist   who    is  .^^l^/^g   f^ '3'f 
months'  tour  of  America,  is  only  35 
years  old  and  yet  he  has  a  recorQ 
of  eleven  books  behind  him. 
1°' The  first  of  these.  ".™  Wo°de^  j  . 
'Horse,"    appeared    in    1909       ?/,?^|    j 
that    time    he    has  .  pub  .ished      The 

^Sta^dic  ^-^^r   "The^^eSess  |  J 
of'^Wre'e,"'  ;Th J   .?ree-  Mirror  '  , 
'The    Dark    Forest,"      The    becret , 
City"  and     those     charming  books  ,  ; 
abo^ut  children.  "The  GcMen  Scare- 
crow" and  "Jeremy.  .  . 

The  young  novelist  has  visited 
America  before.  The  first  visit  oc- 
curred in  the  early  nineties  when 
his  father,  now  the  bishop  of  Edin- 
burgh, came  to  occupy  the  chair  of 
dogmatic  theology  at  the  New  York 
Theological  seminary-  At  _  that 
time  his  son's  presence  occasioned 
far  less  comment  than  i^  is  doing 
today,  when  he  is  regarded  as  one 
of  the  foremost  English  novelists 
i  and  literary  critics.  •--      „* 

Mr  Walpole  has  a  diversity  of 
interests  and  has  had  a  diversitv  of 
experiences.  He  served  in  the  Rus- 
sian array  during  the  first  year  of 
the  war,  returning  later  to  Petro-.c 
grad  for  the  British  government.  . 
He  was  in  Russia  all  through  the  . 
revolution.  ,    ,  ,  ,„     . ' 

He  knows  England  thoroughly  of 
course;  he  knows  Cambridge;  he 
knows  the  court;  he  knows  the  foi- 
eign  office;  he  knows  the  secret 
service  and  he  knows  London  soci- 
ety.    He  is  said  to  be  a  keen  patron  . 

of  sport.  ...      1      „„-i  ' 

No  one  could  read  his  books  and 
not  be  aware  that  human  nature  is 
one  of  his  chief  interests,  and  in 
many  of  his  novels— "The  Dark ; 
Forest"  and  "The  Golden  Scare-, 
crow"  particularly — we  find  poetry 
and  grace  to  a  marked  degree. 

It  remains  to  be  seen  in  just  what 
manner  Walpole,  the  impression- 
able student  and  active  critic  will 
treat  America.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  his  visit  will  increase  the 
Anglo-American  friendship  and 
understanding  that  is  so  desirable 
lln  these  uncertain  days. 


JEREMY 

HUGH  WALPOLE 


BOOKS  BY  HUGH  WALPOLE 

NOVELS 

THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

MR.  PERRIN  AND  MR.  TRAILL 

THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

THE  DARK  FOREST 

THE  SECRET  CITY 

ROMANCES 

THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

FORTITUDE 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

MARADICK  AT  FORTY 

BOOKS  ABOUT  CHILDREN 

THE  GOLDEN  SCARECROW 
JEREMY 

BELLES-LETTRES 

JOSEPH  CONRAD:  A  CRITICAL  STUDY 


JEREMY 


BY 

HUGH  WALPOLE 

Author  of  "The  Secret  City,"  "The  Green  Mirror,' 
"The  Golden  Scarecrow,"  etc. 


NEW  XHir  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


ur 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


„,V.  OF  CAUF.  UBRARY.  LOS  ANGEU* 


PR 

W  '^j 


TO 

BRUCE 

FROM 
HIS   LOVING  UNCLE 


"It  is  due  to  Mm  to  say  that  he  was 
an  obedient  boy  and  a  boy  whose  word 
could  be  depended  on.  .  .  ." 

Jackanapes 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAQH 

I    The  Birthday 11 

II    The  Family  Dog 36 

III  Christmas  Pantoiume 59 

IV  Miss  Jones 87 

V    The  Sea-Captain '  ,     .  114 

VI    Faauly  Pride 138 

VII    Religion 160 

VIII    To  Cow  Farm 182 

IX    The  Awakening  op  Charlotte 204 

X    Mary 231 

XI    The  Merry-Go-Round 258 

XII    Hamlet  Waits 287 


vu 


JEREMY 


JEREMY 


CHAPTER  I 


HHE  BIETHDAY 


ABOUT  thirty  years  ago  there  was  at  the  top  of  the 
right-hand  side  of  Orange  Street,  in  Polchester,  a 
large  stone  house.  I  say  "was" ;  the  shell  of  it  is  still 
there,  and  the  people  who  now  live  in  it  are  quite  un- 
aware, I  suppose,  that  anything  has  happened  to  the  inside 
of  it,  except  that  they  are  certainly  assured  that  their  fur- 
niture is  vastly  Superior  to  the  furniture  of  their  prede- 
cessors. They  have  a  gramophone,  a  pianola,  and  a  lift 
to  bring  the  plates  from  the  kitchen  into  the  dining-room, 
and  a  small  motor  garage  at  the  back  where  the  old  pump 
used  to  be,  and  a  very  modem  rock-garden  where  once  was 
the  pond  with  the  fountain  that  never  worked.  Let  them 
cherish  their  satisfaction.  'No  one  grudges  it  to  them. 
The  Coles  were,  by  modern  standards,  old-fashioned  people, 
and  the  Stone  House  was  an  old-fashioned  house. 

Young  Jeremy  Cole  was  bom  there  in  the  year  1884, 
very  early  in  the  morning  of  December  8th.  He  was  still 
there  very  early  in  the  morning  of  December  8th,  1892. 

He  was  sitting  up  in  bed.  The  cuckoo  clock  had  just 
struck  five,  and  he  was  aware  that  he  was,  at  this  very 

11 


12  JEREMY 

moment,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  eight  years  old.  He 
had  gone  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock  on  the  preceding  evening 
with  the  choking  consciousness  that  he  would  awake  in  the 
morning  a  different  creature.  Although  he  had  slept,  there 
had  permeated  the  texture  of  his  dreams  that  same  choking 
excitement,  and  now,  wide  awake,  as  though  he  had  asked 
the  cuckoo  to  call  him  in  order  that  he  might  not  be  late 
for  the  gi-eat  occasion,  he  stared  into  the  black  distance  of 
his  bedroom  and  reflected,  with  a  beating  heart,  upon  the 
great  event.  He  was  eight  years  old,  and  he  had  as  much 
right  now  to  the  nursery  arm-chair  with  a  hole  in  it  as 
Helen  had. 

That  was  his  first  definite  realisation  of  approaching 
triumph.  Throughout  the  whole  of  his  seventh  year  he 
had  fought  with  Helen,  who  was  most  unjustly  a  year  older 
than  he  and  persistently  proud  of  that  injustice,  as  to  his 
right  to  use  the  wicker  arm-chair  whensoever  it  pleased 
him.  So  destructive  of  the  general  peace  of  the  house  had 
these  incessant  battles  been,  so  unavailing  the  suggestions 
of  elderly  relations  that  gentlemen  always  yielded  to  ladies, 
that  a  compromise  had  been  arrived  at.  When  Jeremy 
was  eight  he  should  have  equal  rights  with  Helen.  Well 
and  good.  Jeremy  had  yielded  to  that.  It  was  the  only 
decent  chair  in  the  nursery.  Into  the  place  where  the 
wicker,  yielding  to  rude  and  impulsive  pressure,  had  fallen 
away,  one's  body  might  be  most  happily  fitted.  It  was  of 
exactly  the  right  height;  it  made  the  handsomest  creak- 
ing noises  when  one  rocked  in  it — and,  in  any  case,  Helen 
was  only  a  girl. 

But  the  sense  of  his  triumph  had  not  yet  fully  descended 
upon  him.  As  he  sat  up  in  bed,  yawning,  with  a  tickle  in 
the  middle  of  his  back  and  his  throat  very  dry,  he  was  dis- 


THE  BIKTHDAY  13 

appointingly  aware  that  he  was  still  the  same  Jeremy  of 
yesterday.  He  did  not  know  what  it  was  exactly  that  he 
had  expected,  but  he  did  not  feel  at  present  that  confident 
proud  glory  for  which  he  had  been  prepared.  Perhaps  it 
was  too  early. 

He  turned  round,  curled  his  head  into  his  arm,  and 
with  a  half-muttered,  half-dreamt  statement  about  the 
wicker  chair,  he  was  once  again  asleep. 


n 

He  awoke  to  the  customary  sound  of  the  bath  water 
running  into  the  bath.  His  room  was  flooded  with  sun- 
shine, and  old  Jampot,  the  nurse  (her  name  was  Mrs.  Pres- 
ton and  her  shape  was  Jampot),  was  saying  as  usual: 
"NoWf  Master  Jeremy,  eight  o'clock ;  no  lying  in  bed — out 
— you  get — bath — ready." 

He  stared  at  her,  blinking. 

^'You  should  say  'Many  Happy  Returns  of  the  Day, 
Master  Jeremy,'  "  he  remarked.  Then  suddenly,  with  a 
leap,  he  was  out  of  bed,  had  crossed  the  floor,  pushed  back 
the  nursery  door,  and  was  sitting  in  the  wicker  arm-chair, 
his  naked  feefkicking  a  triumphant  dance. 

''Helen !    Helen !"  he  called.    "I'm  in  the  chair." 

'No  sound. 

"I'm  eight,"  he  shouted,  "and  I'm  in  the  chair." 

Mrs.  Preston,  breathless  and  exclaiming,  hurried  across 
to  him. 

"Oh,  you  naughty  boy  .  .  .  death  of  cold  ...  in  your 
nightshirt." 

"I'm  eight,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  scornfully,  "and  I 
can  sit  here  as  long  as  I  please." 


i4  JEKEMY 

Helen,  her  pigtails  flapping  on  either  shoulder,  her  nose 
red,  as  it  always  was  early  in  the  morning,  appeared  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  nursery. 

"i!^urse,  he  mustn't,  must  he  ?  Tell  him  not  to.  I  don't 
care  how  old  you  are.    It's  my  chair.    Mother  said " 

"No,  she  didn't.    Mother  said " 

"Yes,  she  did.    Mother  said " 

"Mother  said  that  when " 

"Oh,  you  story.     You  know  that  Mother  said " 

•Jhen  suddenly  a  new,  stiffening,  trusting  dignity  filled 
him,  as  though  he  had  with  a  turn  of  the  head  discovered 
himself  in  golden  armour. 

He  was  above  this  vulgar  wrangling  now.  That  was  for 
girls.  He  was  superior  to  them  all.  He  got  down  from  the 
chair  and  stood,  his  head  up,  on  the  old  Turkey  rug  (red 
with  yellow  cockatoos)  in  front  of  the  roaring  fire. 

"You  may  have  your  old  chair,"  he  said  to  Helen.  "I'm 
eight  now,  and  I  don't  want  it  any  more  .  .  .  although 
if  I  do  want  it  I  shall  have  it,"  he  added. 

He  was  a  small,  square  boy  with  a  pug-nosed  face.  His 
hair  was  light  brown,  thin  and  stiff,  so  that  it  was  difficult 
to  brush,  and  although  you  watered  it,  stood  up  in  unex- 
pected places  and  stared  at  you.  His  eyes  were  good,  dark 
brown  and  large,  but  he  was  in  no  way  handsome ;  his  neck, 
his  nose  ridiculous.  His  mouth  was  too  large,  and  his  chin 
stuck  out  like  a  hammer. 

He  was,  plainly,  obstinate  and  possibly  sulky,  although 
when  he  smiled  his  whole  face  was  lighted  with  humour. 
Helen  was  the  only  beautiful  Cole  child,  and  she  was  abun- 
dantly aware  of  that  fact.  The  Coles  had  never  been  a 
good-looking  family. 

He  stood  in  front  of  the  fireplace  now  as  he  had  seen  his 


THE  BIRTHDAY  15 

father  do,  his  short  legs  apart,  his  head  up,  and  his  hands 
behind  his  back. 

''Now,  Master  Jeremy,"  the  Jampot  continued,  "you 
may  be  eight  years  old,  but  it  isn't  a  reason  for  disobe- 
dience the  very  first  minute,  and,  of  course,  your  bath  is 
ready  and  you  catching  your  death  with  naked  feet,  which 
you've  always  been  told  to  put  your  slippers  on  and  not  to 
keep  the  bath  waiting,  when  there's  Miss  Helen  and  Miss 
Mary,  as  you  very  well  know,  and  breakfast  coming  in  five 
minutes,  which  there's  sausages  this  morning,  because  it's 
your  birthday,  and  them  all  getting  cold " 

''Sausages !" 

He  was  across  the  floor  in  a  moment,  had  thrown  off 
his  nightshirt  and  was  in  his  bath..  Sausages!  He  was 
translated  into  a  world  of  excitement  and  splendour.  They 
had  sausages  so  seldom,  not  always  even  on  birthdays,  and 
to-day,  on  a  cold  morning,  with  a  crackling  fire  and  mar- 
malade, perhaps — and  then  all  the  presents. 

Oh,  he  was  happy.  As  he  rubbed  his  back  with  the 
towel  a  wonderful  glowing  Christian  charity  spread  from 
his  head  to  his  toes  and  tingled  through  every  inch  of  him. 
Helen  should  sit  in  the  chair  when  she  pleased;  Mary 
should  be  allowed  to  dress  and  undress  the  large  woollen 
dog,  known  as  "Sulks,"  his  own  especial  and  beloved  prop- 
erty, so  often  as  she  wished;  Jampot  should  poke  the 
twisted  end  of  the  towel  in  his  ears  and  brush  his  hair  with 
the  hard  brushes,  and  he  would  not  say  a  word.  Aunt 
Mary  should  kiss  him  (as,  of  course,  she  would  want  to 
do),  and  he  would  not  shiver;  he  would  (bravest  deed  of 
all)  allow  Mary  to  read  "Alice  in  Wonderland"  in  her 
sing-sing  voice  so  long  as  ever  she  wanted.  .  .  .  Sau- 
sages !   Sausages ! 


16  JEEEMY 

In  his  shirt  and  his  short  blue  trousers,  his  hair  on  end, 
tugging  at  his  braces,  he  stood  in  the  doorway  and  shouted : 

"Helen,  there  are  sausages — because  it's  my  birthday. 
Aren't  you  glad  ?" 

And  even  when  the  only  response  to  his  joyous  invitation, 
was  Helen's  voice  crossly  admonishing  the  Jampot :  "Oh,, 
you  do  pull  so;  you're  hurting!" — ^his  charity  was  nou 
checked. 

Then  when  he  stood  clothed  and  of  a  cheerful  mind  once 
more  in  front  of  the  fire  a  shyness  stole  over  him.  He 
knew  that  the  moment  for  Presents  was  approaching;  he 
knew  that  very  shortly  he  would  have  to  kiss  and  be  kissed 
by  a  multitude  of  persons,  that  he  would  have  to  say  again 
and  again,  "Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you  so  much !"  that  he 
would  have  his  usual  consciousness  of  his  inability  to  thank 
anybody  at  all  in  the  way  that  they  expected  to  be  thanked. 
Helen  and  Mary  never  worried  about  such  things.  They 
delighted  in  kissing  and  hugging  and  multitudes  of  words. 
If  only  he  might  have  had  his  presents  by  himself  and  then 
stolen  out  and  said  "Thank  you"  to  the  lot  of  them  and 
have  done  with  it. 

He  watched  the  breakfast-table  with  increasing  satis- 
faction— the  large  teapot  with  the  red  roses,  the  dark  blue 
porridge  plates,  the  glass  jar  with  the  marmalade  a  rich  yel- 
low inside  it,  the  huge  loaf  with  the  soft  pieces  bursting  out 
between  the  crusty  pieces,  the  solid  square  of  butter,  so 
beautiful  a  colour  and  marked  with  a  large  cow  and  a  tree 
on  the  top  (he  had  seen  once  in  the  kitchen  the  wooden 
shape  with  which  the  cook  made  this  handsome  thing). 
There  were  also  his  own  silver  mug,  given  him  at  his  chris- 
tening by  Canon  Trenchard,  his  godfather,  and  his  silver 
spoon,  given  him  on  the  same  occasion  by  Uncle  Samuel. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  17 

All  these  things  glittered  and  glowed  in  the  firelight,  and  a 
kettle  was  singing  on  the  hob  and  Martha  the  canary  was 
singing  in  her  cage  in  the  window.  (ITo  one  really  knew 
whether  the  canary  were  a  lady  or  a  gentleman,  but  the 
name  had  been  Martha  after  a  beloved  housemaid,  now 
married  to  the  gardener,  and  the  sex  had  followed  the 
name.) 

There  were  also  all  the  other  familiar  nursery  things. 
The  hole  in  the  Turkey  carpet  near  the  bookcase,  the  rock- 
ing-horse, very  shiny  where  you  sit  and  very  Christmas- 
tree-like  as  to  its  tail;  the  doll's  house,  now  deserted,  be- 
cause Helen  was  too  old  and  Mary  too  clever ;  the  pictures 
of  "Church  on  Christmas  Morning"  (everyone  with  their 
mouths  very  wide  open,  singing  a  Christmas  hymn,  with 
holly),  "Dignity  and  Impudence,"  after  Landseer,  "The 
Shepherds  and  the  Angels,"  and  "The  Charge  of  the  Light 
Brigade."  So  packed  was  the  nursery  with  history  for 
Jeremy  that  it  would  have  taken  quite  a  week  to  relate  it 
all.  There  was  the  spot  where  he  had  bitten  the  Jampot's 
fingers,  for  which  deed  he  had  afterwards  been  slippered 
by  his  father ;  there  the  corner  where  they  stood  for  pun- 
ishment (he  knew  exactly  how  many  ships  with  sails,  how 
many  ridges  of  waves,  and  how  many  setting  suns  there 
were  on  that  especial  piece  of  comer  wallpaper — three 
ships,  twelve  ridges,  two  and  a  half  suns)  ;  there  was  the 
place  where  he  had  broken  the  ink-bottle  over  his  shoes  and 
the  carpet,  there  by  the  window,  where  Mary  had  read  to 
him  once  when  he  had  toothache,  and  he  had  not  known 
whether  her  reading  or  the  toothache  agonised  him  the 
more;  and  so  on,  an  endless  sequence  of  sensational  history. 

His  reminiscences  were  cut  short  by  the  appearance  of 
Gladys  with  the  porridge.    Gladys,  who  was  only  the  be- 


18  JEREMY 

tween-maid,  but  was  nevertheless  stout,  breathless  from  her 
climb  and  the  sentiment  of  the  occasion,  produced  from  a 
deep  pocket  a  dirty  envelope,  which  she  laid  upon  the 

tabla 

''Many  'appy  returns.  Master  Jeremy."     Giggle  .  .  . 
:le.  .  .  .  ''Lord   save  us  if  I   'aven't  gone   and  for- 


(Tcr 


gocten  they  spunes,"  and  she  vanished.    The  present-giving 
had  besrun. 

He  had  an  instant's  struggle  as  to  whether  it  were  bet- 
ter to  wait  until  all  the  presents  had  accumulated,  or 
whether  he  would  take  them  separately  as  they  arrived. 
The  dirty  envelope  lured  him.  He  advanced  towards  it 
and  seized  it.  He  could  not  read  very  easily  the  sprawling 
writing  on  the  cover,  but  he  guessed  that  it  said  "From 
Gladys  to  Master  Jeremy."  Within  was  a  marvellous  card, 
tied  together  with  glistening  cord  and  shining  with  all  the 
colours  of  the  rainbow.  It  was  apparently  a  survival  from 
last  Christmas,  as  there  was  a  church  in  snow  and  a  peal 
of  bells ;  he  was,  nevertheless,  very  happy  to  have  it. 

After  his  introduction  events  moved  swiftly.  Eirst 
Helen  and  Mary  appeared,  their  faces  shining  and  sol- 
enm  and  mysterious — Helen  self-conscious  and  Mary  star- 
ing through  her  spectacles  like  a  profound  owl. 

Because  Jeremy  had  known  Mary  ever  since  he  could 
remember,  he  was  unaware  that  there  was  anything  very 
peculiar  about  her.  But  in  truth  she  was  a  strange-looking 
child.  Very  thin,  she  had  a  large  head,  with  big  outstand- 
ing  ears,  spectacles,  and  yellow  hair  pulled  back  and 
"stringy."  Her  large  hands  were  always  red,  and  her 
forehead  was  freckled.  She  was  as  plain  a  child  as  you 
were  ever  likely  to  see,  but  there  was  character  in  her 
mouth  and  eyes,  and  although  she  was  only  seven  years  old, 


THE  BIRTHDAY  19 

she  could  read  quite  difficult  books  (she  was  engaged  at 
this  particular  time  upon  'Tvanhoe"),  and  she  was  a 
genius  at  sums. 

The  passion  of  her  life,  as  the  family  were  all  aware, 
was  Jeremv,  but  it  was  an  unfortunate  and  uncomfortable 
passion.  She  bothered  and  worried  him,  she  was  insanely 
jealous ;  she  would  sulk  for  days  did  he  ever  seem  to  prefer 
Helen  to  herself.  ]^o  one  understood  her ;  she  was  con- 
sidered a  "difficult  child,"  quite  unlike  any  other  meml^er 
of  the  family,  except  possibly  Samuel,  Mr.  Cole's  brother- 
in-law,  who  was  an  unsuccessful  painter  and  therefore 
"odd." 

As  Mary  was  at  present  only  seven  years  of  age  it  would 
be  too  much  to  say  that  the  family  was  afraid  of  her.  Aunt 
Amy's  attitude  was:  "Well,  after  all,  she's  sure  to  be 
clever  when  she  grows  up,  poor  child ;"  and  although  the 
parishioners  of  Mary's  father  always  alluded  to  her  as 
"the  ludicrous  Cole  child,"  they  told  awed  little  stories 
about  the  infant's  mental  capacities,  and  concluded  com- 
fortably, "I'm  glad  Alice  (or  Jane  or  Matilda  or  Anabel) 
isn't  clever  like  that.  They  overwork  when  they  are  young, 
and  then  when  they  grow  up " 

Meanwhile  Mary  led  her  private  life.  She  attached 
herself  to  no  one  but  Jeremy;  she  was  delicate  and  suf- 
fered from  perpetual  colds;  she  therefore  spent  much  of 
her  time  in  the  nursery  reading,  her  huge  spectacles  close 
to  the  page,  her  thin  legs  like  black  sticks  stuck  up  on  the 
fender  in  front  of  the  fire  or  curled  up  under  her  on  the 
window-seat. 

Very  different  was  Helen.  Helen  had  a  mass  of  dark 
black  hair,  big  black  eyes  with  thick  eye-lashes,  a  thin  white 
neck,  little  feet,  and  already  an  eye  to  "effects"  in  dress. 


20  JEREMY 

She  was  charming  to  strangers,  to  the  queer  curates  who 
haunted  the  family  hall,  to  poor  people  and  rich  people,  to 
old  people  and  young  people.  She  was  warm-hearted  but 
not  impulsive,  intelligent  but  not  clever,  sympathetic  but 
not  sentimental,  impatient  but  never  uncontrolled.  She 
liked  almost  everyone  and  almost  everything,  but  no  one 
and  nothing  mattered  to  her  very  deeply ;  she  liked  going 
to  church,  always  learnt  her  Collect  first  on  Sunday,  and 
gave  half  her  pocket-money  to  the  morning  collection.  She 
w^as  generous  but  never  extravagant,  enjoyed  food  but  was 
not  greedy.  She  was  quite  aware  that  she  was  pretty  and 
might  one  day  be  beautiful,  and  she  was  glad  of  that,  but 
she  was  never  silly  about  her  looks. 

When  Aunt  Amy,  who  was  always  silly  about  every- 
thing, said  in  her  presence  to  visitors,  "Isn't  Helen  the 
loveliest  thing  you  ever  saw  ?"  she  managed  by  her  shy  self- 
confidence  to  suggest  that  she  was  pretty,  that  Aunt  Amy 
was  a  fool,  and  life  was  altogether  very  agreeable,  but  that 
none  of  these  things  was  of  any  great  importance.  She 
"was  very  good  friends  with  Jeremy,  but  she  played  no 
part  in  his  life  at  all.  At  the  same  time  she  often  fought 
with  him,  simply  from  her  real  deep  consciousness  of  her 
superiority  to  him.  She  valued  her  authority  and  asserted 
it  incessantly.  That  authority  had  until  last  year  been 
nnchallenged,  but  Jeremy  now  was  growing.  She  had, 
although  she  did  not  as  yet  realise  it,  a  difficult  time  before 
her. 

Helen  and  Mary  advanced  with  their  presents,  laid  them 
on  the  breakfast-table,  and  then  retreated  to  watch  the 
effect  of  it  all. 

''Shall  I  now  ?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"Yes,  now,"  said  Helen  and  Mary. 


THE  BIKTHDAY  '        21 

There  were  three  parcels,  one  large  and  "shoppy,"  two 
small  and  bound  with  family  paper,  tied  by  family  hands 
with  family  string.  He  grasped  immediately  the  situation. 
The  shoppy  parcel  was  bought  with  mother's  money  and 
only  "pretended"  to  be  from  his  sisters;  the  two  small 
parcels  were  the  very  handiwork  of  the  ladies  themselves, 
the  same  having  been  seen  by  all  eyes  at  work  for  the  last 
six  months,  sometimes,  indeed,  under  the  cloak  of  at- 
tempted secrecy,  but  more  often — because  weariness  or  ill- 
temper  made  them  careless — in  the  full  light  of  day. 

His  interest  was  centred  almost  entirely  in  the  "shoppy" 
parcel,  which  by  its  shape  might  be  "soldiers";  but  he 
knew  the  rules  of  the  game,  and  disregarding  the  large, 
ostentatious  browTi-papered  thing,  he  went  magnificently 
for  the  two  small  incoherent  bundles. 

He  opened  them.  A  flat  green  table-centre  with  a  red 
pattern  of  roses,  a  thick  table-napkin  ring  worked  in  yellow 
worsted,  these  were  revealed. 

"Oh !"  he  cried,  "just  what  I  wanted."  (Father  always 
said  that  on  his  birthday.) 

"Is  it  ?"  said  Mary  and  Helen. 

"Mine's  the  ring,"  said  Mary.  "It's  dirty  rather,  but 
it  would  have  got  dirty,  anyway,  afterwards."  She  watched 
anxiously  to  see  whether  he  preferred  Helen's. 

He  watched  them  nervously,  lest  he  should  be  expected 
to  kiss  them.  He  wiped  his  mouth  with  his  hand  instead, 
and  began  rapidly  to  talk: 

"Jampot  will  know  now  which  mine  is.  She's  always 
giving  me  the  wrong  one.  I'll  have  it  always,  and  the 
green  thing  too." 

"It's  for  the  middle  of  a  table,"  Helen  interrupted. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Jeremy  hurriedly.     "I'll  always 


22  JEEEMY 

have  it  too — like  Mary's — when  I'm  grown  up  and  all. 
...     I  say,  shall  I  open  the  other  one  now  ?" 

''Yes,  you  can,"  said  Helen  and  Mary,  ceasing  to  take 
the  central  place  in  the  ceremony,  spectators  now  and 
eagerly  excited. 

But  Mary  had  a  last  word. 

''You  do  like  mine,  don't  vou  ?" 

"Of  course,  like  anything." 

She  wanted  to  say  ''Better  than  Helen's  ?"  but  restrained 
herself. 

"I  was  ever  so  long  doing  it ;  I  thought  I  wouldn't  finish 
it  in  time." 

He  saw  with  terror  that  she  meditated  a  descent  upon 
him ;  a  kiss  was  in  the  air.  She  moved  forward ;  then,  to 
his  extreme  relief,  the  door  opened  and  the  elders  arriving 
saved  him. 

There  were  Father  and  Mother,  Uncle  Samuel  and  Aunt 
Amy,  all  with  presents,  faces  of  birthday  tolerance  and 
^'do-as-you-please-to-day,  dear"  expressions. 

The  Rev.  Herbert  Cole  was  forty  years  of  age,  rector  of 
St.  James's,  Polchester,  during  the  last  ten  years,  and 
marked  out  for  greater  preferment  in  the  near  future.  To 
be  a  rector  at  thirty  is  unusual,  but  he  had  great  religious 
gifts,  preached  an  admirable  "as-man-to-man"  sermon,  and 
did  not  believe  in  thinking  about  more  than  he  could  see. 
He  was  an  excellent  father  in  the  abstract  sense,  but  the 
parish  absorbed  too  much  of  his  time  to  allow  of  intima- 
cies with  anyone. 

Mrs.  Cole  was  the  most  placid  lady  in  Europe.  She  had 
a  comfortable  figure,  but  was  not  stout,  here  a  dimple  and 
there  a  dimple.  Nothing  could  disturb  her.  Children, 
serv^ants,  her  husband's  sermons,  district  visiting,  her  Tues- 


THE  BIRTHDAY  23 

day  "at  homes,"  the  butcher,  the  dean's  wife,  the  wives  of 
the  canons,  the  Polchester  climate,  bills,  clothes,  other 
women's  clothes — over  all  these  rocks  of  peril  in  the  sea  of 
daily  life  her  barque  happily  floated.  Some  ill-natured 
people  thought  her  stupid,  but  in  her  younger  days  she 
had  liked  Trollope's  novels  in  the  Cornhill,  disapproved 
placidly  of  "Jane  Eyre,"  and  admired  Tennyson,  so  that 
she  could  not  be  considered  unliterary. 

She  was  economical,  warm-hearted,  loved  her  children, 
talked  only  the  gentlest  scandal,  and  was  a  completely 
happy  woman — all  this  in  the  placidest  way  in  the  world. 

Miss  Amy  Trefusis,  her  sister,  was  very  different,  being 
thin  both  in  her  figure  and  her  emotions.  She  skirted 
tempestuously  over  the  surface  of  things,  was  the  most 
sentimental  of  human  beings,  was  often  in  tears  over  rem- 
iniscences of  books  or  the  weather,  was  deeply  religious 
in  a  superficial  way,  and  really — although  she  would  have 
been  entirely  astonished  had  you  told  her  so — cared  for 
no  one  in  the  world  but  herself.  She  was  dressed  always 
in  dark  colours,  with  the  high  shoulders  of  the  day,  ele- 
gant bonnets  and  little  chains  that  jingled  as  she  moved. 
In  her  soul  she  feared  and  distrusted  children,  but  she  did 
not  know  this.  She  did  know,  however,  that  she  feared  and 
distrusted  her  brother  Samuel. 

Her  brother  Samuel  was  all  that  the  Trefusis  family, 
as  a  conservative  body  who  believed  in  tradition,  had  least 
reason  for  understanding.  He  had  been  a  failure  from  the 
first  moment  of  his  entry  into  the  Grammar  School 
in  Polchester  thirty-five  years  before  this  story.  He  had 
continued  a  failure  at  Winchester  and  at  Christ  Church, 
Oxford.  He  had  desired  to  be  a  painter;  he  had  broken 
from  the  family  and  gone  to  study  Art  in  Paris.    He  had 


24  JEREMY 

starved  and  starved,  was  at  death's  door,  was  dragged 
home,  and  there  suddenly  had  relapsed  into  Polchester, 
lived  first  on  his  father,  then  on  his  brother-in-law,  painted 
about  the  town,  painted,  made  cynical  remarks  about  the 
Polcastrians,  painted,  made  blasphemous  remarks  about 
the  bishop,  the  dean  and  all  the  canons,  painted,  and  re- 
fused to  leave  his  brother-in-law's  house.  He  was  a  scan- 
dal, of  course;  he  was  fat,  untidy,  wore  a  blue  tam-o'- 
shanter  when  he  was  "out,"  and  sometimes  went  down 
Orange  Street  in  carpet  slippers. 

He  was  a  scandal,  but  what  are  you  to  do  if  a  relative 
is  obstinate  and  refuses  to  go  ?  At  least  make  him  shave, 
say  the  wives  of  the  canons.  But  no  one  had  ever  made 
Samuel  Trefusis  do  anything  that  he  did  not  want  to  do. 
He  was  sometimes  not  shaved  for  three  whole  days  and 
nights.  At  any  rate,  there  he  is.  It  is  of  no  use  saying 
that  he  does  not  exist,  as  many  of  the  Close  ladies  try  to  do. 
And  at  least  he  does  not  paint  strange  women ;  he  prefers 
flowers  and  cows  and  the  Polchester  woods,  although  any- 
thing less  like  cows,  flowers  and  woods,  Mrs.  Sampson,  wife 
of  the  Dean,  who  once  had  a  water-colour  in  the  Academy, 
says  she  has  never  seen.  Samuel  Trefusis  is  a  failure,  and, 
what  is  truly  awful,  he  does  not  mind;  nobody  buys  his 
pictures  and  he  does  not  care;  and,  worst  taste  of  all,  he 
laughs  at  his  relations,  although  he  lives  on  them.  ISToth- 
ing  further  need  be  said. 

To  Helen,  Mary  and  Jeremy  he  had  always  been  a  fas- 
cinating object,  although  they  realised,  with  that  sharp 
worldly  wisdom  to  be  found  in  all  infants  of  tender  years, 
that  he  was  a  failure,  a  dirty  man,  and  disliked  children. 
He  very  rarely  spoke  to  them ;  was  once  quite  wildly  en- 
raged when  Mary  was  discovered  licking  his  paints.     (It 


THE  BIRTHDAY  25 

was  the  paints  he  seemed  anxious  about,  not  in  the  least 
the  poor  little  thing's  health,  as  his  sister  Amy  said),  and 
had  publicly  been  heard  to  say  that  his  brother-in-law  had 
only  got  the  children  he  deserved. 

Nevertheless  Jeremy  had  always  been  interested  in  him. 
He  liked  his  fat  round  shape,  his  rough,  untidy  grey  hair, 
his  scarlet  slippers,  his  blue  tam-o'-shanter,  the  smudges 
of  paint  sometimes  to  be  discovered  on  his  cheeks,  and  the 
jingling  noises  he  made  in  his  pocket  with  his  money.  He 
was  certainly  more  fun  than  Aunt  Amy. 

There,  then,  they  all  were  with  their  presents  and  their 
birthday  faces. 

"Shall  I  undo  them  for  you,  darling?"  of  course  said 
Aunt  Amy.  Jeremy  shook  his  head  (he  did  not  say  what 
he  thought  of  her)  and  continued  to  tug  at  the  string.  He 
was  given  a  large  pair  of  scissors.  He  received  (from 
Father)  a  silver  watch,  (from  Mother)  a  paint-box,  a  dark 
blue  and  gold  prayer  book  with  a  thick  squashy  leather 
cover  (from  Aunt  Amy). 

He  was  in  an  ecstasy.  How  he  had  longed  for  a  watch, 
just  such  a  turnip-shaped  one,  and  a  paint-box.  What 
colours  he  could  make !  Even  Aunl:  Amy's  prayer  book  was 
something,  with  its  squashy  cover  and  silk  marker  (only 
why  did  Aunt  Amy  never  give  him  anything  sensible?). 

He  stood  there,  his  face  flushed,  his  eyes  sparkling,  the 
watch  in  one  hand  and  the  paint-box  in  the  other. 

Remarks  were  heard  like:  "You  mustn't  poke  it  with 
your  finger,  Jerry  darling,  or  you'll  break  the  hands  off" ; 
and  "I  thought  he'd  better  have  the  square  sort,  and  not 
the  tubes.  They're  so  squashy";  and  "You'll  be  able  to. 
learn  your  Collect  so  easily  with  that  big  print,  Jerry 
dear.    Very  kind  of  you,  Amy." 


26  JEREMY 

Meanwhile  he  was  aware  that  Uncle  Samuel  had  given 
him  nothing.  There  was  a  little  thick  catch  of  disappoint- 
ment in  his  throat,  not  because  he  wanted  a  present,  but 
because  he  liked  Uncle  Samuel.  Suddenly,  from  somewhere 
behind  him  his  uncle  said :  ''Shut  your  eyes,  Jerry.  Don't 
open  them  until  I  tell  you" — then  rather  crossly,  "jSTo, 
Amy,  leave  me  alone.  I  know  what  I'm  about,  thank 
you!" 

Jeremy  shut  his  eyes  tight.  He  closed  them  so  that 
the  eyelids  seemed  to  turn  right  inwards  and  red  lights 
flashed.  He  stood  there  for  at  least  a  century,  all  in  dark- 
ness, no  one  saying  anything  save  that  once  Mary  cried 
"Oh !"  and  clapped  her  hands,  which  same  cry  excited  him 
to  such  a  pitch  that  he  would  have  dug  his  nails  into  his 
hands  had  he  not  so  consistently  in  the  past  bitten  them 
that  there  were  no  nails  with  which  to  dig.  He  waited. 
He  waited.  He  waited.  He  was  not  eight,  he  was  eighty 
when  at  last  Uncle  Samuel  said,  "Now  you  may  look." 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  turned ;  for  a  moment  the  nurs- 
ery, too,  rocked  in  the  unfamiliar  light.  Then  he  saw. 
On  the  middle  of  the  nursery  carpet  was  a  village,  a  real 
village,  six  houses  with  red  roofs,  green  windows  and  white 
porches,  a  church  with  a  tower  and  a  tiny  bell,  an  orchard 
with  flowers  on  the  fruit  trees,  a  green  lawn,  a  street  with 
a  butcher's  shop,  a  post  office,  and  a  grocer's.  Villager 
Noah,  Mrs.  Noah  and  the  little  Noahs,  a  field  with 
cows,  horses,  dogs,  a  farm  with  chickens  and  even  two 
pigs.  .  .  . 

He  stood,  he  stared,  he  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"It  comes  all  the  way  from  Germany,"  said  Aunt  Amy, 
who  always  made  things  uninteresting  if  she  possibly 
could. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  27 

There  was  mucli  delighted  talk.  Jeremy  said  noth- 
ing.   But  Uncle  Samuel  understood. 

"Glad  you  like  it,"  he  said,  and  left  the  room. 

"Aren't  you  pleased  ?"  said  Helen. 

Jeremy  still  said  nothing. 

"Sausages.  Sausages!"  cried  Mary,  as  Gladys,  grin- 
ning, entered  with  a  dish  of  a  lovely  and  pleasant  smell. 

But  Jeremy  did  not  turn.  He  simply  stood  there — 
staring. 

in 

It  is  of  the  essence  of  hirthdays  that  they  cannot  main- 
tain throughout  a  long  day  the  glorious  character  of  their 
early  dawning.  In  Polchester  thirty  years  ago  there  were 
no  cinematographs,  no  theatre  save  for  an  occasional  ama- 
teur performance  at  the  Assembly  Eooms  and,  once  and 
again,  a  magic-lantern  show.  On  this  particular  day,  more- 
over, Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cole  were  immensely  busied  with  prep- 
arations for  some  parochial  tea.  Miss  Trefusis  had  calls 
to  make,  and,  of  course,  Uncle  Samuel  was  invisible.  The 
iBirthday  then  suddenly  became  no  longer  a  birthday  but 
an  ordinary  day — with  an  extraordinary  standard.  This 
is  why  so  many  birthdays  end  in  tears. 

But  Jeremy,  as  was  usual  with  him,  took  everything 
quietly.  He  might  cry  aloud  about  such  an  affair  as  the 
conquest  of  the  wicker  chair  because  that  did  not  deeply 
matter  to  him,  but  about  the  real  things  he  was  silent.  The 
village  was  one  of  the  real  things ;  during  all  the  morning 
he  remained  shut  up  in  his  soul  with  it,  the  wide  world 
closed  off  from  them  by  many  muffled  doors.  How  had 
Uncle  Samuel  known  that  he  had  deep  in  his  own  inside, 
so  deep  that  he  had  not  mentioned  it  even  to  himself, 


28  JEEEMY 

wanted  sometiiing  just  like  this  ?  Thirty  years  ago  there 
were  none  of  the  presents  that  there  are  for  children  now — 
no  wonderful  railways  that  run  round  the  nursery  from 
Monte  Carlo  to  Paris  with  all  the  stations  marked;  no 
dolls  that  are  so  like  fashionable  women  that  you  are  given 
a  manicure  set  with  them  to  keep  their  nails  tidy;  no 
miniature  motor-cars  that  run  of  themselves  and  go  for 
miles  round  the  floor  without  being  wound  up.  Jeremy 
knew  none  of  these  things,  and  was  the  happier  that  he 
did  not.  To  such  a  boy  such  a  village  was  a  miracle. 
.  .  .  It  had  not  come  from  Germany,  as  Aunt  Amy 
said,  but  from  heaven.  But  it  was  even  more  of  Uncle 
Samuel  than  the  village  that  he  was  thinking.  When  they 
started — Helen,  Mary  and  he  in  charge  of  the  Jampot — 
upon  their  afternoon  walk,  he  was  still  asking  himself  the 
same  questions.  How  had  Uncle  Samuel  known  so  ex- 
actly ?  Had  it  been  a  great  trouble  to  bring  from  so  far 
away  ?  Had  Uncle  Samuel  thought  it  bad  of  him  not  to 
thank  him? 

He  was  lost  in  such  considerations  when  the  Jampot 
inquired  of  him  the  way  that  their  walk  should  take — it 
was  his  choice  because  it  was  his  Birthday.  He  had  no 
choice.  There  was  one  walk  that  far  exceeded  all  others 
in  glory,  straight  down  Orange  Street,  straight  again 
through  the  Market,  past  the  Assembly  Rooms  and  the 
Town  Hall,  past  the  flower  and  fruit  stalls,  and  the  old 
banana  woman  under  the  green  umbrella  and  the  toy  stall 
with  coloured  balloons,  the  china  dogs  and  the  nodding 
donkeys,  up  the  High  Street,  into  the  cobble-stones  of  the 
Close,  whence  one  could  look  dovm,  between  the  houses  on 
to  the  orchards,  round  the  Cathedral  with  the  meadows, 


THE  BIRTHDAY  29 

Pol  Meads  sloping  down  to  the  river,  so  througli  Orchard 
Lane  into  Orange  Street  once  again. 

Such  a  walk  combined  every  magic  and  delight  known 
to  the  heart  of  man,  but  it  was  not  generally  allowed, 
because  Jeremy  would  drag  past  the  shops,  the  stalls  in  the 
Market  Place  and  the  walk  behind  the  Cathedral,  whence 
one  might  sometimes  see  boats  on  the  river,  sheep  and  cows 
in  the  meads,  and,  in  their  proper  season,  delight  of  de- 
lights— lambs. 

They  set  out.  .  .  . 

Thirty  years  ago  the  winter  weather  in  Polchester  was 
wonderful.  Now,  of  course,  there  are  no  hard  winters, 
no  frost,  no  snow,  no  waits,  no  snowmen,  and  no  skating 
on  the  Pol.  Then  there  were  all  those  things.  To-day  was 
of  a  hard,  glittering  frost;  the  sun,  like  a  round,  red 
lacquer  tray,  fell  heavily,  slowly  through  a  faint  pale  sky 
that  was  not  strong  enough  to  sustain  it.  The  air  had  the 
cold,  sweet  twang  of  peppermints  in  the  throat.  Polchester 
was  a  painted  town  upon  a  blue  screen,  the  Cathedral 
towers  purple  against  the  sky;  the  air  was  scented  with 
burning  leaves,  and  cries  from  the  town  rose  up  clear  and 
hard,  lingering  and  falling  like  notes  of  music.  Some- 
where they  were  playing  football,  and  the  shouting  was 
distant  and  regTilar  like  the  tramp  of  armed  men.  '^Three" 
struck  the  Cathedral  clock,  as  though  it  were  calling  "Open 
Sesame."  Other  lesser  clocks  repeated  the  challenge  cry 
through  the  town.  "Woppley — Woppley — Why !"  sung 
the  man  who  was  selling  skins  down  Orange  Street.  The 
sky,  turning  slowly  from  blue  to  gold,  shone  mysteriously 
through  the  glass  of  the  street  lamps,  and  the  sun  began 
to  wrap  itself  in  tints  of  purple  and  crocus  and  iris. 


30  JERE]\rY 

"Woppley — "Wopplev — Why !"  screamed  the  skin-man  sud- 
denly appearing  at  the  top  of  the  street. 

"Xow  'urry,  Master  Jeremy,"  said  the  Jampot,  "or  we 
shall  never  get  'ome  this  night,  and  I  might  have  known 
you'd  choose  the  longest  walk  possible.  Come  along.  Miss 
Mary,  now — none  of  that  dawdling." 

Jeremy,  in  his  H.M.S.  Adventure's  cap  and  rough  blue 
navy  coat,  felt  himself  superior  to  the  Jampot,  so  he  only 
said,  "Oh,  don't  bother,  j^urse,"  and  then  in  the  same 
breath,  "I'll  run  you  down  the  hill,  Mary,"  and  before 
anyone  could  say  a  word  there  they  were  at  the  bottom 
of  Orange  Street,  as  though  they  had  fallen  into  a  well. 
The  sun  was  gone,  the  golden  horizon  was  gone — only 
the  purple  lights  began  to  gather  about  their  feet  and 
climb  slowly  the  high  black  houses. 

Mary  liked  this,  because  she  now  had  Jeremy  to  herself. 
She  began  hurriedly,  so  that  she  should  lose  no  time: 

"Shall  I  tell  you  a  story,  Jeremy  ?  I've  got  a  new  one. 
Once  upon  a  time  there  were  three  little  boys,  and  they 
lived  in  a  wood,  and  an  old  witch  ate  them,  and  the  Prin- 
cess who  had  heaps  of  jewellery  and  a  white  horse  and  a 
lovely  gold  dress  came,  and  it  was  snowing  and  the 
witch " 

This  was  always  Mary's  way.  She  loved  to  tell  Jeremy 
interesting  stories,  and  he  did  not  mind  because  he  did 
not  listen  and  could  meanwhile  think  his  own  thoughts. 

His  chief  decision  arrived  at  as  he  marched  along  was 
that  he  would  keep  the  village  to  himself;  no  one  else 
should  put  their  fingers  into  it,  arrange  the  orchard  with 
the  coloured  trees,  decide  upon  the  names  of  the  'Noah 
family,  settle  the  village  street  in  its  final  order,  ring  the 
bell  of  the  church,  or  milk  the  cows.    He  alone  would  do 


THE  BIKTHDAY  31 

all  these  things.  And,  so  considering,  he  seemed  to  himself 
very  like  God.  God,  he  supposed,  could  pull  Polchester 
about,  root  out  a  house  here,  another  there,  knock  the 
Assembly  Rooms  down  and  send  a  thunderbolt  on  to  the 
apple  woman's  umbrella.  Well,  then — so  could  he  with  his 
village.  He  walked  swollen  with  pride.  He  arrived  at 
the  first  Island  of  Circe,  namely,  the  window  of  Mr. 
Thompson,  the  jeweller  in  Market  Street,  pressed  his  nose 
to  the  pane,  and  refused  to  listen  when,  the  Jampot  sug- 
gested that  he  should  move  forward. 

He  could  see  the  diamonds  like  drops  of  water  in  the 
sun,  and  the  pearls  like  drops  of  milk,  and  the  rubies  like 
drops  of  blood,  but  it  was  not  of  diamonds,  pearls  or  rubies 
that  he  was  thinking — he  thought  only  of  his  village.  He 
would  ring  the  church  bell,  and  then  all  the  Xoah  family 
should  start  out  of  the  door,  down  the  garden,  up  the  vil- 
lage street.  ...  It  did  not  matter  if  one  of  the 
younger  IS^oahs  should  be  lazy  and  wish  to  stay  at  home  be- 
neath the  flowering  trees  of  the  orchard.  She  would  not 
be  allowed.  .  .  .  He  was  as  God.  .  .  .  He  was 
as  God.  .  .  .  The  butcher  should  go  (if  he  was  not 
stuck  to  his  shop),  and  even  some  of  his  cows  might  go. 
.     ,     .     He  was  as  God.     .     .     . 

He  heard  Mary's  voice  in  his  ear. 

"And  after  that  they  all  ate  chocolates  with  white  cream 
and  red  cream,  and  they  sucked  it  off  pins,  and  there  were 
hard  bits  and  soft  bits,  and  the  Princess  (she  was  a  frog 
now.  You  remember,  don't  you,  Jeremy?  The  witch 
turned  her)  hotted  the  oven  like  cook  has,  with  black  doors, 
and  hotted  it  and  hotted  it,  but  suddenly  there  was  a 
noise " 

And,   on  the  other  side,  the  Jampot's  voice:     "You 


32  JEREMY 

naughty  boy,  stoppin'  'ere  for  everyone  to  see,  just  because 
it's  your  birthday,  which  I  wish  there  wasn't  no  birthdays, 
nor  there  wouldn't  be  if  I  had  my  way." 

Jeremy  turned  from  Mr.  Thompson's  window,  a  scorn- 
ful smile  on  his  face: 

"I'm  bigger'n  you,  Nurse,"  he  said.  "If  I  said  out 
loud,  ^I  won't  go,'  I  wouldn't  go,  and  no  one  could  make 
me." 

"Well,  come  along,  then,"  said  l^urse. 

"Don't  be  so  stupid,  Jerry,"  said  Helen  calmly.  "If  a 
policeman  came  and  said  you  had  to  go  home  you'd  have 
to  go." 

"ISTo  I  wouldn't,"  said  Jeremy. 

"Then  they'd  put  you  in  prison." 

"They  could." 

"They'd  hang  you,  perhaps." 

"They  could,"  replied  Jeremy. 

Farther  than  this  arg-ument  cannot  go,  so  Helen  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  said :    "You  are  silly." 

And  they  all  moved  forward. 

He  found  then  that  this  new  sense  of  God-like  power 
detracted  a  little  from  the  excitements  of  the  Market  Place, 
although  the  flower-stall  was  dazzling  with  flowers;  there 
was  a  new  kind  of  pig  that  lifted  its  tail  and  lowered  it 
again  on  the  toy  stall,  and  the  apple-woman  was  as  fat  as 
ever  and  had  thick  clumps  of  yellow  bananas  hanging  most 
richly  around  her  head.  They  ascended  the  High  Street 
and  reached  the  Close.  It  was  half-past  three,  and  the 
Cathedral  bells  had  begun  to  ring  for  evensong.  All  the 
houses  in  the  Close  were  painted  with  a  pale  yellow  light ; 
across  the  long  green  Cathedral  lawn  thin  black  shadows 
like  the  fingers  of  giants  pointed  to  the  Cathedral  door. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  33 

All  was  so  silent  here  that  the  bells  danced  against  the 
houses  and  back  again,  the  echoes  lingering  in  the  high 
elms  and  mingling  with  the  placid  cooing  of  the  rooks. 

"There's  Mrs.  Sampson/'  said  Jeremy.  "Aunt  Amy 
says  she's  a  wicked  woman.  Do  you  think  she's  a 
wicked  woman,  ISTurse  ?"  He  gazed  at  the  stout  figure  with 
interest.  If  he  were  truly  God  he  would  turn  her  into 
a  rabbit.  This  thought  amused  him,  and  he  began  to 
laugh. 

"You  naughty  boy ;  now  come  along,  do,"  said  the  Jam- 
pot, who  distrusted  laughter  in  Jerry. 

"I'll  ring  the  bells  when  I  grow  up,"  he  said,  "and  I'll 
ring  them  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  so  that  everyone  will 
have  to  go  to  church  when  they  don't  want  to.  I'll  be 
able  to  do  what  I  like  when  I  gTow  up." 

"]^o,  you  won't,"  said  Helen.  "Father  and  Mother  can't 
do  what  they  like." 

"Yes  they  can,"  said  Jeremy. 

"No  they  can't,"  answered  Helen,  "or  they  would." 

"So  they  do,"  said  Jeremy — "silly." 

"Silly  yourself,"  said  Helen  very  calmly,  because  she 
knew  very  well  that  she  was  not  silly. 

"ISTow,  children,  stop  it,  do,"  said  the  Jampot. 

Jeremy's  sense  of  newly  received  power  reached  its 
climax  when  they  walked  round  the  Close  and  reached  the 
back  of  the  Cathedral.  I  know  that  now,  both  for  Jeremy 
and  me,  that  prospect  has  dwindled  into  its  proper  gi-own- 
up  proportions,  but  how  can  a  man,  be  he  come  to  three- 
score and  ten  and  more,  ever  forget  the  size,  the  splendour, 
the  stupendous  extravagance  of  that  early  vision  ? 

Jeremy  saw  that  day  the  old  fragment  of  castle  wall, 
the  green  expanse  falling  like  a  sheeted  waterfall  from 


84  JEREMY 

the  Cathedral  heights,  the  blue  line  of  river  flashing  in 
the  evening  sun  between  the  bare-boughed  trees,  the  long 
spaces  of  black  shadow  spreading  slowly  over  the  colour, 
as  though  it  were  all  being  rolled  up  and  laid  away  for  an- 
other day;  the  brown  frosty  path  of  the  Rope  Walk,  the 
farther  bank  climbing  into  fields  and  hedges,  ending  in  the 
ridge  of  wood,  black  against  the  golden  sky.  And  all  so 
still!  As  the  children  stood  there  they  could  catch  nest- 
lings' faint  cries,  stirrings  of  dead  leaves  and  twigs,  as 
birds  and  beasts  moved  to  their  homes;  the  cooing  of  the 
rooks  about  the  black  branches  seemed  to  promise  that  this 
world  should  be  for  ever  tranquil,  for  ever  cloistered  and 
removed;  the  sun,  red  and  flaming  above  the  dark  wood, 
flung  white  mists  hither  and  thither  to  veil  its  departure. 
The  silence  deepened,  the  last  light  flamed  on  the  river 
and  died  upon  the  hill. 

"ISTow,  children,  come  along  do,"  said  the  Jampot  who 
had  been  held  in  spite  of  herself,  and  would  pay  for  it, 
she  knew,  in  rheumatism  to-morrow.  It  was  then  that 
Jeremy's  God-flung  sense  of  power,  bom  from  that  mo- 
ment early  in  the  day  when  he  had  sat  in  the  wicker 
chair,  reached  its  climax.  He  stood  there,  his  legs  apart, 
looking  upon  the  darkening  world  and  felt  that  he  could 
do  anything — anything.     .     .     . 

At  any  rate,  there  was  one  thing  that  he  could  do,  dis- 
obey the  Jampot. 

"I'm  not  coming,"  he  said,  "till  I  choose." 

"You  wicked  boy !"  she  cried,  her  temper  rising  with  the 
evening  chills,  her  desire  for  a  cup  of  hot  tea,  and  an  ach- 
ing longing  for  a  comfortable  chair.  "When  everyone's 
been  so  good  to  you  to-day  and  the  things  you've  been 
given  and  all — why,  it's  a  wicked  shame." 


THE  BIRTHDAY  35- 

The  Jampot,  who  was  a  woman  happily  without  imag- 
ination, saw  a  naughty  small  boy  spoiled  and  needing  the 
slipper. 

A  rook,  taking  a  last  k)ok  at  the  world  before  retiring 
to  rest,  watching  from  his  leafless  bough,  saw  a  mortal 
spirit  defying  the  universe,  and  sympathised  with  it. 

*'I  shall  tell  your  mother,"  said  the  Jampot.  "ITow 
come.  Master  Jeremy,  be  a  good  boy." 

*'0h,  don't  bother,  Nurse,"  he  answered  impatiently^ 
"You're  such  a  fuss." 

She  realised  in  that  moment  that  he  was  suddenly  be- 
yond her  power,  that  he  would  never  be  within  it  again. 
She  had  nursed  him  for  eight  years,  she  had  loved  him  in 
her  own  way ;  she,  dull  perhaps  in  the  ways  of  the  world, 
but  wise  in  the  ways  of  nurses,  ways  that  are  built  up  of 
surrender  and  surrender,  gave  him,  then  and  there,  to  ih& 
larger  life.     .     .     . 

"You  may  behave  as  you  like.  Master  Jeremy,"  she 
said.  "It  won't  be  for  long  that  I'll  have  the  dealing  with 
you,  praise  be.  You'll  be  going  to  school  next  September, 
and  then  we'll  see  what'll  happen  to  your  wicked  pride." 

"School!"  he  turned  upon  her,  his  eyes  wide  and  star- 
ing. 

"School !"  he  stared  at  them  all. 

The  world  tumbled  from  him.  In  his  soul  was  a  confu- 
sion of  triumph  and  dismay,  of  excitement  and  loneliness, 
of  the  sudden  falling  from  him  of  all  old  standards,  old 
horizons,  of  pride  and  humility.  .  .  .  How  little  now 
was  the  Village  to  him.  He  looked  at  them  to  see  whether 
they  could  understand.     They  could  not. 

Very  quietly  he  followed  them  home.  His  birthday  had 
achieved  its  climax.     .     .     . 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  FAMILY  DOG 


THAT  winter  of  Jeremy's  eighth  birthday  was 
famous  for  its  snow.  Glebeshire  has  never  yielded 
to  the  wishes  of  its  children  in  the  matter  of  snowy  Christ- 
mases,  and  Polchester  has  the  reputation  of  muggy 
warmth  and  foggy  mists,  but  here  was  a  year  when  tradi- 
tions were  fulfilled  in  the  most  reckless  manner,  and  all 
the  1892  babies  were  treated  to  a  present  of  snow  on  so 
£ne  a  scale  that  certainly  for  the  rest  of  their  days  they 
will  go  about  saying :  "Ah,  you  should  see  the  winters  we 
used  to  have  when  we  were  children.  .  .  ." 

The  snow  began  on  the  very  day  after  Jeremy's  birth- 
day, coming  down  doubtfully,  slowly,  little  grey  flakes 
against  a  grey  sky,  then  sparkling  white,  then  vanishing 
flashes  of  moisture  on  a  wet,  unsympathetic  soil.  That 
day  the  snow  did  not  lie ;  and  for  a  week  it  did  not  come 
again;  then  with  a  whirl  it  seized  the  land,  and  for  two 
days  and  nights  did  not  loosen  its  grip.  From  the  nursery 
windows  the  children  watched  it,  their  noses  making  little 
rings  on  the  window-pane,  their  delighted  eyes  snatching 
fascinating  glimpses  of  figures  tossed  through  the  storm, 
■cabs  beating  their  way,  the  rabbit-skin  man,  the  milkman, 
the  postman,  brave  adventurers  all,  fighting,  as  it  seemed, 
for  their  very  lives. 

36 


THE  FAMILY  DOG  ST 

For  two  days  the  children  did  not  leave  the  house,  and 
the  natural  result  of  that  was  that  on  the  second  afternoon 
tempers  were,  like  so  many  dogs,  straining,  tugging,  pull- 
ing at  their  chains. 

It  could  not  be  denied  that  Jeremy  had  been  tiresome 
to  everyone  since  the  afternoon  when  he  had  heard  the 
news  of  his  going  to  school  next  September.  It  had 
seemed  to  him  a  tremendous  event,  the  Beginning  of  the 
End.  To  the  others,  who  lived  in  the  immediate  present,  it 
was  a  crisis  so  remote  as  scarcely  to  count  at  all.  Mary 
would  have  liked  to  be  sentimental  about  it,  but  from  this, 
she  was  sternly  prevented.  There  was  then  nothing  more 
to  be  said.     .     .     . 

Jeremy  was  suddenly  isolated  from  them  all.  His  des- 
tiny was  peculiar.  They  were  girls,  he  was  a  boy.  They 
understood  neither  his  fears  nor  his  ambitions ;  he  needed 
terribly  a  companion.  The  snow,  shutting  them  in,  laughed 
at  their  struggles  against  monotony.  The  nursery  clock 
struck  three  and  they  realised  that  two  whole  hours  must 
pass  before  the  next  meal.  Mary,  her  nose  red  from  press- 
ing on  the  window-pane,  her  eyes  gazing  through  her  huge 
spectacles  wistfully  at  Jeremy,  longed  to  suggest  that  she 
should  read  aloud  to  him.  She  knew  that  he  hated  it ;  she 
pretended  to  herself  that  she  did  not  know. 

Jeremy  stared  desperately  at  Helen  who  was  sitting, 
dignified  and  collected,  in  the  wicker  chair  hemming  a 
minute  handkerchief. 

"We  might  play  Pirates,"  Jeremy  said  with  a  little 
cough,  the  better  to  secure  her  attention.  There  was  no 
answer. 

"Or  there's  the  hut  in  the  wood — if  anyone  likes  it  bet- 
ter," he  added  politely.     He  did  not  know  what  was  the 


•38  JEREMY 

matter.  Had  the  Jampot  not  told  him  about  school  he 
^ould  at  this  very  moment  be  playing  most  happily  with 
his  village.  It  spread  out  there  before  him  on  the  nursery 
floor,  the  Noah  family  engaged  upon  tea  in  the  orchard, 
the  butcher  staring  with  fixed  gaze  from  the  door  of  his 
shop,  three  cows  and  a  sheep  absorbed  in  the  architecture 
■of  the  church. 

He  sighed,  then  said  again:  "Perhaps  Pirates  would 
be  better." 

Still  Helen  did  not  reply.  He  abandoned  the  attempted 
-control  of  his  passions. 

"It's  very  rude,"  he  said,  "not  to  answer  when  gentle- 
men speak  to  you." 

"I  don't  see  any  gentlemen,"  answered  Helen  quietly, 
without  raising  her  eyes,  which  was,  as  she  knew,  a  provok- 
ing habit. 

"Yes,  you  do,"  almost  screamed  Jeremy.     "I'm  one." 

"You're  not,"  continued  Helen;  "you're  only  eight. 
Gentlemen  must  be  over  twenty  like  Father  or  Mr.  Jelly- 
brand." 

"I  hate  Mr.  Jellybrand  and  I  hate  you,"  replied 
Jeremy. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Helen. 

"Yes,  you  do,"  said  Jeremy,  then  suddenly,  as  though 
•even  a  good  quarrel  were  not  worth  while  on  this  heavily 
burdened  afternoon,  he  said  gently:  "You  might  play 
Pirates,  Helen.    You  can  be  Sir  Roger." 

"I've  got  this  to  finish." 

"It's  a  dirty  old  thing,"  continued  Jeremy,  pursuing 
an  argument,  "and  it'll  be  dirtier  soon,  and  the  Jampot 
says  you  do  all  the  stitches  wrong.    I  wish  I  was  at  school." 

"I  wish  you  were,"  said  Helen. 


THE  FAMILY  DOG  39 

There  was  a  pause  after  this.  Jeremy  went  sadly  back 
to  his  window-seat.  Mary  felt  that  her  moment  had  ar- 
rived. Sniffing,  as  was  her  habit  when  she  wanted  some- 
thing very  badly,  she  said  in  a  voice  that  was  little  more 
than  a  whisper : 

"It  would  be  fim,  wouldn't  it,  perhaps  if  I  read  some- 
thing, Jeremy?" 

Jeremy  was  a  gentleman,  although  he  was  only  eighth 
He  looked  at  her  and  saw  behind  the  spectacles  eyes  be- 
seeching his  permission. 

"Well,  it  wouldn't  be  much  fun,"  he  said,  "but  it's  all 
beastly  this  afternoon,  anyway." 

"Can  I  sit  on  the  window  too  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"Not  too  close,  because  it  tickles  my  ear,  but  you  can 
if  you  like." 

She  hurried  across  to  the  bookshelf.  "There's  'Stumps* 
and  'Eags  and  Tatters,'  and  'Engel  the  Fearless,'  and 
'Herr  Baby'  and  'Alice'  and " 

"  'Alice'  is  best,"  said  Jeremy,  sighing.  "You  know  it 
better  than  the  others."  He  curled  himself  into  a  corner 
of  the  window-seat.  From  his  position  there  he  had  a  fine 
view.  Immediately  below  him  was  the  garden,  white  and 
grey  under  the  grey  sky,  the  broken  fountain  standing  up 
like  a  snow  man  in  the  middle  of  it.  The  snow  had  ceased 
to  fall  and  a  great  stillness  held  the  world. 

Beyond  the  little  iron  gate  of  the  garden  that  always 
sneezed  "Tishoo"  when  you  closed  it,  was  the  top  of  Orange 
Street ;  then  down  the  hill  on  the  right  was  the  tower  of 
his  father's  church ;  exactly  opposite  the  gate  was  the  road 
that  led  to  the  Orchards,  and  on  the  right  of  that  was  the 
Polchester  High  School  for  Young  Ladies,  held  in  great 
contempt  by  Jeremy,  the  more  that  Helen  would  shortly 


40  JEEEMY 

be  a  day-boarder  there,  would  scream  with  the  other  girls, 
and,  worst  of  all,  would  soon  be  seen  walking  with  her 
arm  round  another  girl's  neck,  chattering  and  eating 
sweets.  .  .  . 

The  whole  world  seemed  deserted.  !No  colour,  no  move- 
ment, no  sound.  He  sighed  once  more — "I'd  like  to  eat 
jam  and  jam — lots  of  it,"  he  thought.  "It  would  be  fun 
to  be  sick." 

Mary  arrived  and  swung  herself  up  on  to  the  window- 
seat. 

"It's  the  'Looking  Glass'  one.  I  hope  you  don't  mind," 
she  said  apprehensively. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  he  allowed.  He  flung  a  glance 
back  to  the  lighted  nursery.  It  seemed  by  contrast  with 
that  grey  world  outside  to  blaze  with  colour;  the  red- 
painted  ships  on  the  wallpaper,  the  bright  lights  and 
shadows  of  "The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,"  the  sal- 
mon fronts  of  the  doll's  house,  the  green  and  red  of  the 
village  on  the  floor  with  the  flowery  trees,  the  blue  table- 
cloth, the  shining  brass  coal-scuttle  all  alive  and  sparkling 
in  the  flames  and  shadows  of  the  fire,  caught  and  held 
by  the  fine  gold  of  the  higher  fender.  Beyond  that  dead 
white — soon  it  would  be  dark,  the  curtains  would  be  drawn, 
and  still  there  would  be  nothing  to  do.     He  sighed  again. 

"It's  a  nice  bit  about  the  shop,"  said  Mary.  Jeremy 
said  nothing,  so  she  began.     She  started  at  a  run : 

"  'She  looked  at  the  Queen,  who  seemed  to  have'  " — 
sniff,  sniff — "  'sud-den-ly  suddenly  wra-wra-w-r-a-p-p-e-d 
wrapped '  " 

"Wrapped?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mary,  rubbing  her  nose,  "what  it 
means,   but  perhaps  we'll   see  presently,    'herself  up  in 


THE  FAMILY  DOG  '41 

w-o-o-1  wool.  Alice  rubbed  her  eyes  and  looked  again  she 
couldn't '  " 

"  'Looked  again  she  couldn't'  ?"  asked  Jeremy.  ''It 
should  be,  'she  couldn't  look  again.'  " 

"Oh,  there's  a  stop,"  said  Mary.  "I  didn't  see.  After 
'again'  there's  a  stop.  'She  couldn't  make  out  what  had 
happened  at  all '  " 

"I  can't  either,"  said  Jeremy  crossly.  "It  would  be 
better  perhaps  if  I  read  it  myself." 

"It  will  be  all  right  in  a  minute,"  said  Mary  confidently. 
"  'Was  she  in  a  shop  ?  And  was  that  really — was  it  really 
a  ship  that  was  sitting  on  the  counter  ?'  "  she  finished  with 
a  run. 

"A  what  ?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"A  ship " 

"A  ship!     How  could  it  sit  on  a  counter?"  he  asked. 

"Oh  no,  it's  a  sheep.  How  silly  I  am!"  Mary  ex- 
claimed. 

"You  do  read  badly,"  he  agreed  frankly.  "I  never  can 
understand  nothing."  And  it  was  at  that  very  moment 
that  he  saw  the  Dog. 


He  had  been  staring  down  into  the  garden  with  a  gaze 
half  abstracted,  half  speculative,  listening  with  one  ear  to 
Mary,  with  the  other  to  the  stir  of  the  fire,  the  heavy  beat 
of  the  clock  and  the  rustlings  of  Martha  the  canary. 

He  watched  the  snowy  expanse  of  garden,  the  black  gate, 
the  road  beyond.  A  vast  wave  of  pale  grey  light,  the 
herald  of  approaching  dusk,  swept  the  horizon,  the  snowy 
roofs,  the  streets,  and  Jeremy  felt  some  contact  with  the 
strange  air,  the  mysterious  omens  that  the  first  snows  of  the 


42  JEKEMY 

winter  spread  about  tlie  land.  He  watched  as  tliougli  lie 
were  waiting  for  something  to  happen. 

The  creature  came  up  very  slowly  over  the  crest  of 
Orange  Street.  No  one  else  was  in  sight,  no  cart,  no  horse, 
no  weather-beaten  wayfarer.  At  first  the  dog  was  only  a 
little  black  smudge  against  the  snow ;  then,  as  he  arrived 
at  the  Coles'  garden-gate,  Jeremy  could  see  him  very  dis- 
tinctly. He'was,  it  appeared,  quite  alone;  he  had  been,  it 
was  evident,  badly  beaten  by  the  storm.  Intended  by 
nature  to  be  a  rough  and  hairy  dog,  he  now  appeared  be- 
fore God  and  men  a  shivering  battered  creature,  dripping 
and  wind-tossed,  bedraggled  and  bewildered.  And  yet, 
even  in  that  first  distant  glimpse,  Jeremy  discerned  a  fine 
independence.  He  was  a  short  stumpy  dog,  in  no  way  de- 
signed for  dignified  attitudes  and  patronising  superiority ; 
nevertheless,  as  he  now  wandered  slowly  up  the  street,  his 
nose  was  in  the  air  and  he  said  to  the  whole  world :  "The 
storm  may  have  done  its  best  to  defeat  me — it  has  failed. 
I  am  as  I  was.  I  ask  charity  of  no  man.  I  know  what  is 
due  to  me." 

It  was  this  that  attracted  Jeremy;  he  had  himself  felt 
thus  after  a  slippering  from  his  father,  or  idiotic  punish- 
ments from  the  Jampot,  and  the  uninvited  consolations  of 
Mary  or  Helen  upon  such  occasions  had  been  resented  with 
so  fierce  a  bitterness  that  his  reputation  for  suUdness  had 
been  soundly  established  with  all  his  circle.  ' 

Mary  was  reading  ...  !  "  'an  old  Sheep,  sitting  in  an 
arm-chair,  knitting,  and  every  now  and  then  leaving  off  to 
look  at  her  through  a  great  pair  of  spec-t-a-c-les  spec- 
tacles!'" 

He  touched  her  arm  and  whispered : 


THE  FAMILY  DOG  43 

"I  say,  Mary,  stop  a  minute — look  at  that  dog  down 
there." 

They  both  stared  down  into  the  garden.  The  dog  had 
stopped  at  the  gate;  it  sniffed  at  the  bars,  sniffed  at  the 
wall  beyond,  then  very  slowly  but  with  real  dignity  con- 
tinued its  way  up  the  road. 

"Poor  thing,"  said  Jeremy.  "It  is  in  a  mess."  Then 
to  their  astonishment  the  dog  turned  back  and,  sauntering 
down  the  road  again  as  though  it  had  nothing  all  day  to 
do  but  to  wander  about,  and  as  though  it  were  not  wet, 
shivering  and  hungry,  it  once  more  smelt  the  gate. 

"Oh,"  said  Mary  and  Jeremy  together. 

"It's  like  Mother,"  said  Jeremy,  "when  she's  going  to 
see  someone  and  isn't  sure  whether  it's  the  right  house." 

Then,  most  marvellous  of  unexpected  climaxes,  the  dog 
suddenly  began  to  squeeze  itself  between  the  bottom  bar  of 
the  gate  and  the  ground.  The  interval  was  fortunately  a 
large  one;  a  moment  later  the  animal  was  in  the  Coles' 
garden. 

The  motives  that  led  Jeremy  to  behave  as  he  did  are 
uncertain.  It  may  have  been  something  to  do  with  the 
general  boredom  of  the  afternoon,  it  may  have  been  that 
he  felt  pity  for  the  bedraggled  aspect  of  the  animal — most 
probable  reason  of  all,  was  that  devil-may-care  independ- 
ence flung  up  from  the  road,  as  it  were,  expressly  at  him- 
self. 

The  dog  obviously  did  not  feel  any  great  respect  for  the 
Cole  household.  He  wandered  about  the  garden,  sniffing 
and  smelling  exactly  as  though  the  whole  place  belonged 
to  him,  and  a  ridiculous  stump  of  tail,  unsubdued  by  the 
weather,  gave  him  the  ludicrous  dignity  of  a  Malvolio. 


44  JEEEMY 

"I'm  going  down,"  wkispered  Jeremy,  flinging  a  cau- 
tious glance  at  Helen  who  was  absorbed  in  her  sewing. 

Mary's  eyes  grew  wide  with  horror  and  admiration. 
"You're  not  going  out,"  she  whispered.  "In  the  snow. 
Oh,  Jeremy.     They  will  be  angry." 

"I  don't  care,"  whispered  Jeremy  back  again.  "They 
can  be." 

Indeed,  before  Mary's  frightened  whisper  he  had  not 
intended  to  do  more  than  creep  down  into  the  pantry  and 
watch  the  dog  at  close  range ;  now  it  was  as  though  Mary 
had  challenged  him.  He  knew  that  it  was  the  most  wicked 
thing  that  he  could  do — to  go  out  into  the  snow  without 
a  coat  and  in  his  slippers.  He  might  even,  according  to 
Aunt  Amy,  die  of  it,  but  as  death  at  present  meant  no  more 
to  him  than  a  position  of  importance  and  a  quantity  of  red- 
currant  jelly  and  chicken,  that  prospect  did  not  deter  him. 
He  left  the  room  so  quietly  that  Helen  did  not  even  lift  her 
eyes. 

Then  upon  the  landing  he  waited  and  listened.  The 
house  had  all  the  lighted  trembling  dusk  of  the  snowy 
afternoon;  there  was  no  sound  save  the  ticking  of  the 
clocks.  He  might  come  upon  the  Jampot  at  any  moment, 
but  this  was  just  the  hour  when  she  liked  to  drink  her  cup 
of  tea  in  the  kitchen;  he  knew  from  deep  and  constant 
study  every  movement  of  her  day.  Fortune  favoured  him. 
He  reached  without  trouble  the  little  dark  corkscrew  serv- 
ants' staircase.  Down  this  he  crept,  and  found  himself 
beside  the  little  gardener's  door.  Although  here  there  was 
only  snow-lit  dusk,  he  felt  for  the  handle  of  the  lock,  found 
it,  turned  it,  and  was,  at  once,  over  the  steps,  into  the 
garden. 

Here,  with  a  vengeance,  he  felt  the  full  romance  and 


THE  FAMILY  DOG  45 

danger  of  his  enterprise.  It  was  horribly  cold;  he  had 
been  in  the  nursery  for  two  whole  days,  wrapped  up  and 
warm,  and  now  the  snowy  world  seemed  to  leap  up  at  him 
and  drag  him  down  as  though  into  an  icy  well.  Myste- 
rious shadows  hovered  over  the  garden;  the  fountain 
pointed  darkly  against  the  sky,  and  he  could  feel  from  the 
feathery  touches  upon  his  face  that  the  snow  had  begun 
to  fall  again. 

lie  moved  forward  a  few  steps ;  the  house  was  so  dark 
behind  him,  the  world  so  dim  and  uncertain  in  front  of 
him,  that  for  a  moment  his  heart  failed  him.  He  might 
have  to  search  the  whole  garden  for  the  dog. 

Then  he  heard  a  sniff,  felt  something  wet  against  his 
leg — he  had  almost  stepped  upon  the  animal.  He  bent 
down  and  stroked  its  wet  coat.  The  dog  stood  quite  still, 
then  moved  forward  towards  the  house,  sniffed  at  the  steps, 
at  last  walked  calmly  through  the  open  door  as  though  the 
house  belonged  to  him.  Jeremy  followed,  closed  the  door 
behind  him ;  then  there  they  were  in  the  little  dark  passage 
with  the  boy's  heart  beating  like  a  drum,  his  teeth  chatter- 
ing, and  a  terrible  temptation  to  sneeze  hovering  around 
him.  Let  him  reach  the  nursery  and  establish  the  animal 
there  and  all  might  be  well,  but  let  them  be  discovered, 
cold  and  shivering,  in  the  passage,  and  out  the  dog  would 
be  flung.  He  knew  so  exactly  what  would  happen.  He 
could  hear  the  voices  in  the  kitchen.  He  knew  that  they 
were  sitting  warm  there  by  the  fire,  but  that  at  any  mo- 
ment Jampot  might  think  good  to  climb  the  stairs  and  see 
"what  mischief  they  children  were  up  to."  Everything  d€>- 
pended  upon  the  dog.  Did  he  bark  or  whine,  out  into  the 
night  he  must  go  again,  probably  to  die  in  the  cold.  But 
Jeremy,  the  least  sentimental  of  that  most  sentimental 


46  JEEEMY 

race  the  English,  was  too  intent  upon  his  threatened  sneeze 
to  pay  much  attention  to  these  awful  possibilities. 

He  took  off  his  slippers  and  began  to  climb  the  stairs, 
the  dog  close  behind  him,  very  grave  and  dignified,  in  spite 
of  the  little  trail  of  snow  and  water  that  he  left  in  his 
track.  The  nursery  door  was  reached,  pushed  softly  open, 
and  the  startled  gaze  of  ]\Iary  and  Helen  fell  wide-eyed 
upon  the  adventurer  and  his  prize. 


in 

The  dog  went  directly  to  the  fire;  there,  sitting  in  the 
very  middle  of  the  golden  cockatoos  on  the  Turkey  rug,  he 
began  to  lick  himself.  He  did  this  by  sitting  very  square 
on  three  legs  and  spreading  out  the  fourth  stiff  and  erect, 
as  though  it  had  been  not  a  leg  at  all  but  something  of  wood 
or  iron.  The  melted  snow  poured  off  him,  making  a  fine 
little  pool  about  the  golden  cockatoos.  He  must  have  been 
a  strange-looking  animal  at  any  time,  being  built  quite 
square  like  a  toy  dog,  with  a  great  deal  of  hair,  very  short 
legs,  and  a  thick  stubborn  neck ;  his  eyes  were  brown,  and 
now  could  be  seen  very  clearly  because  the  hair  that  usually 
covered  them  was  plastered  about  his  face  by  the  snow.  In 
his  normal  day  his  eyes  gleamed  behind  his  hair  like  sun- 
light in  a  thick  wood.  He  wore  a  little  pointed  beard  that 
could  only  be  considered  an  affectation ;  in  one  word,  if  you 
imagine  a  ridiculously  small  sheep-dog  with  no  legs,  a 
French  beard  and  a  stump  of  a  tail,  you  have  him.  And 
if  you  want  to  know  more  than  that  I  can  only  refer  you 
to  the  description  of  his  gi'eat-great-gi'eat-grandson 
"Jacob,"  described  in  the  Chronicles  of  the  Beaminster 
Family. 


THE  FAMILY  DOG    "  47 

The  children  meanwhile  gazed,  and  for  a  long  time  no 
one  said  a  word.  Then  Helen  said:  "Father  will  be 
angry." 

But  she  did  not  mean  it.  The  three  were,  by  the  en- 
trance of  the  dog,  instantly  united  into  an  offensive  and 
defensive  alliance.  They  knew  well  that  shortly  an  attack 
from  the  Outside  World  must  be  delivered,  and  without  a 
word  spoken  or  a  look  exchanged  they  were  agreed  to  de- 
fend both  themselves  and  the  dog  with  all  the  strength  in 
their  power.  They  had  always  wanted  a  dog;  they  had 
been  prevented  by  the  stupid  and  selfish  arguments  of  un- 
comprehending elders. 

Now  this  dog  was  here ;  they  would  keep  him. 

"Oh,  he's  perfectly  sweet,"  suddenly  said  Helen. 

The  dog  paused  for  a  moment  from  his  ablutions,  raised 
his  eyes,  and  regarded  her  with  a  look  of  cold  contempt, 
then  returned  to  his  task. 

"Don't  be  so  silly,"  said  Jeremy.  "You  know  you  al- 
ways hate  it  when  Aunt  Amy  says  things  like  that  about 
you." 

"Did  ISTurse  see  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"ISTo,  she  didn't,"  said  Jeremy;  "but  she'll  be  up  in  a 
minute." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  asked  Mary,  her  mouth 
wide  open. 

"Do  ?  Keep  him,  of  course,"  said  Jeremy  stoutly ;  at 
the  same  time  his  heart  a  little  failed  him  as  he  saw  the 
pool  of  water  slowly  spreading  and  embracing  one  cocka- 
too after  another  in  its  ruinous  flood. 

"We  ought  to  wipe  him  with  a  towel,"  said  Jeremy; 
"if  we  could  get  him  dry  before  Nurse  comes  up  she 
mightn't  say  so  much." 


48  JEREMY 

But  alas,  it  was  too  late  for  any  towel ;  the  door  opened, 
and  the  Jampot  entered,  humming  a  hymn,  very  cheerful 
and  rosy  from  the  kitchen  fire  and  an  ahundant  series  of 
chronicles  of  human  failings  and  misfortunes.  The  hymn 
ceased  abruptly.  She  stayed  there  where  she  was,  "frozen 
into  an  image,"  as  she  afterwards  described  it.  She  also 
said :    "You  could  'ave  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather." 

The  dog  did  not  look  at  her,  but  crocked  under  him  the 
leg  that  had  been  stiff  like  a  ramrod  and  spread  out  an- 
other.    The  children  did  not  speak. 

"Well !"  For  a  moment  words  failed  her ;  then  she  be- 
gan, her  hands  spread  out  as  though  she  was  addressing 
a  Suffragette  meeting  in  Trafalgar  Square.  (She  knew, 
happy  woman,  nothing  of  Suffragettes.)  "Of  all  the 
things,  and  it's  you,  Master  Jeremy,  that  'as  done  it,  as 
anyone  might  have  guessed  by  the  way  you've  been  be- 
having this  last  fortnight,  and  what's  come  over  you  is  more 
nor  I  nor  anyone  else  can  tell,  which  I  was  saying  only 
yesterday  to  your  mother  that  it's  more  than  one  body 
and  pair  of  hands  is  up  to  the  managing  of  now  you've  got 
so  wild  and  wicked;  and  wherever  from  did  you  get  the 
dirty  animal  dropping  water  all  over  the  nursery  carpet 
and  smelling  awful,  I'll  be  bound,  which  anyone  can  see 
that's  got  eyes,  and  you'd  know  what  your  father  will  do 
to  you  when  he  knows  of  it,  and  so  he  shall,  as  sure  as  my 
name  is  Lizzie  Preston.  ...  Go  on  out,  you  ugly,  dirty 
animal — ough,  you  'orrible  creature  you.     I'll " 

But  her  advance  was  stopped.  Jeremy  stopped  it. 
Standing  in  front  of  the  dog,  his  short  thick  legs  spread 
defiantly  apart,  his  fists  clenched,  he  ahnost  shouted: 

"You  shan't  touch  him.  .  .  .  ISTo,  you  shan't.     I  don't 


THE  FAMILY  DOG  49 

care.  He  shan't  go  out  again  and  die.  You're  a  cruel, 
wicked  woman." 

The  Jampot  gasped.  itTever,  no,  never  in  all  her  long 
nursing  experience  had  she  been  so  defied,  so  insulted. 

Tier  teeth  clicked  as  always  when  her  temper  was 
roused,  the  reason  being  that  thirty  years  ago  the  arts  and 
accomplishments  of  dentistry  had  not  reached  so  fine  a 
perfection  as  to-day  can  show. 

She  had,  moreover,  bought  a  cheap  set.  Her  teeth 
clicked.  She  began:  "The  moment  your  mother  comes 
I  give  her  notice.  To  think  that  all  these  years  I've 
slaved  and  slaved  only  to  be  told  such  things  by  a  boy 
as " 

Then  a  very  dramatic  thing  occurred.  The  door  opened, 
just  as  it  might  in  the  third  act  of  a  play  by  M.  Sardou, 
and  revealed  the  smiling  faces  of  Mrs.  Cole,  Miss  Amy 
Trefusis  and  the  Kev.  William  Jellybrand,  Senior  Curate 
of  St.  James's,  Orange  Street. 

Mr.  Jellybrand  had  arrived,  as  he  very  often  did,  to 
tea.  He  had  expressed  a  desire,  as  he  very  often  did,  to 
see  the  "dear  children."  Mrs.  Cole,  liking  to  show  her 
children  to  visitors,  even  to  such  regular  and  ordinary 
ones  as  Mr.  Jellybrand,  at  once  was  eager  to  gratify  his 
desire. 

"We'll  catch  them  just  before  their  tea,"  she  said 
happily. 

There  is  an  unfortunate  tendency  on  the  part  of  our 
Press  and  stage  to  caricature  our  curates;  this  tendency 
I  would  willingly  avoid.  It  should  be  easy  enough  to  do, 
as  I  am  writing  about  Polchester,  a  town  that  simply 
abounds — and  also  abounded  thirty  years  ago — in  curates 
of  the  most  splendid  and  manly  type.    But,  unfortunately, 


50  JEEEMY 

Mr.  Jellybrand  was  not  one  of  these.  I,  myself,  remem- 
ber him  very  well,  and  can  see  him  now  flinging  his  thin, 
black,  and — as  it  seemed  to  me  then — gigantic  figure  up 
Orange  Street,  his  coat  flapping  behind  him,  his  enormous 
boots  flapping  in  front  of  him,  and  his  hug©  hands  flapping 
on  each  side  of  him  like  a  huge  gesticulating  crow. 

He  had,  the  Polchester  people  who  liked  him  said,  "a 
rich  voice."  The  others  who  did  not  like  him  called  him 
*'an  affected  ass."  He  ran  up  and  down  the  scale  like 
this: 

Mrs. 


dear 


My 


Cole. 


and  his  blue  cheeks  looked  colder  than  any  iceberg.  But 
then  I  must  confess  that  I  am  prejudiced.  I  did  not  like 
him;  no  children  did. 

The  Cole  children  hated  him.  Jeremy  because  he  had 
damp  hands,  Helen  because  he  never  looked  at  her,  Mary 
because  he  once  said  to  her,  "Little  girls  must  play  as 
well  as  work,  you  know."  He  always  talked  down  to  us 
as  though  we  were  beings  of  another  and  inferior  planet. 
He  called  it,  "Getting  on  with  the  little  ones."  ]^o,  he 
was  not  popular  with  us. 

He  stood  on  this  particular  and  dramatic  occasion  in 
front  of  the  group  in  the  doorway  and  stared — as  well  he 
might.  Unfortunately  the  situation,  already  bad  enough, 
was  aggravated  by  this  dark  prominence  of  Mr.  Jellybrand. 
It  cannot  be  found  in  any  chronicles  that  Mr.  Jellybrand 
and  the  dog  had  met  before;  it  is  simply  a  fact  that  the 


THE  FAMILY  DOG  51 

dog,  raising  his  eyes  at  the  opening  of  the  door  and 
catching  sight  of  the  black-coated  figure,  forgot  instantly 
his  toilet,  rose  dripping  from  his  rug,  and  advanced 
growling,  his  lips  back,  his  ears  out,  his  tail  erect,  towards 
the  door.  Then  everything  happened  together.  Mr.  Jelly- 
brand,  who  had  been  afraid  of  dogs  ever  since,  as  an 
infant,  he  had  been  mistaken  for  a  bone  by  a  large  retriever, 
stepped  back  upon  Aunt  Amy,  who  uttered  a  shrill  cry. 
Mrs.  Cole,  although  she  did  not  forsake  her  accustomed 
placidity,  said :  "Nurse  .  .  .  l^urse  .  .  ."  Jeremy  cried : 
"It's  all  right,  he  wouldn't  touch  anything,  he's  only 
friendly."  Mary  and  Helen  together  moved  forward  as 
though  to  protect  Jeremy,  and  the  Jampot  could  be  heard 
in  a  confused  wail :  "Xot  me,  Mum.  .  .  .  Wickedest  boy 
.  .  .  better   give   notice  ...  as    never   listens  .  .  .  dog 


do 


J? 


^&  •  •  • 
The  animal,  however,  showed  himself  now,  as  at  that 

first  earlier  view  of  him,  indifferent  to  his  surroundings. 
He  continued  his  advance  and  then,  being  only  a  fraction 
of  an  inch  from  Mr.  Jellybrand's  tempting  gleaming  black 
trousers,  he  stopped,  crouched  like  a  tiger,  and  with  teeth 
still  bared  continued  his  kettle-like  reverberations.  Aunt 
Amy,  who  hated  dogs,  loved  Mr.  Jellybrand,  and  was  not 
in  the  least  sentimental  when  her  personal  safety  was  in 
danoer,  cried  in  a  shrill  voice:  "But  take  it  awav.  Take 
it  away.  Alice,  tell  him.  It's  going  to  bite  Mr.  Jelly- 
brand." 

The  dog  raised  one  eye  from  his  dreamy  contemplation 
of  the  trousers  and  glanced  at  Aunt  Amy;  from  that 
moment  may  be  dated  a  feud  which  death  only  concluded. 
This  dog  was  not  a  forgetful  dog. 

Jeremy  advanced.    "It's  all  right,"  he  cried  scornfully. 


52  JEREMY 

"He  wouldn't  bite  anything."  He  bent  down,  took  the 
animal  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and  proceeded  to  lead 
it  back  to  the  fire.  The  animal  went  without  a  moment's 
hesitation ;  it  would  be  too  much  to  say  that  it  exchanged 
a  wink  with  Jeremy,  but  something  certainly  passed 
between  them.  Back  again  on  the  Turkey  rug  he  became 
master  of  the  situation.  He  did  the  only  thing  possible: 
he  disregarded  entirely  the  general  company  and  addressed 
himself  to  the  only  person  of  ultimate  importance — namely, 
Mrs.  Cole.  He  lay  down  on  all  fours,  looked  up  directly 
into  her  face,  bared  his  teeth  this  time  in  a  smile  and  not 
in  a  growl,  and  wagged  his  farcical  tail. 

Mrs.  Cole's  psychology  was  of  the  simplest :  if  you  were 
nice  to  her  she  would  do  an3i;hing  for  you,  but  in  spite  of 
all  her  placidity  she  was  sometimes  hurt  in  her  most 
sensitive  places.  These  wounds  she  never  displayed,  and 
no  one  ever  knew  of  them,  and  indeed  they  passed  very 
quickly — ^but  there  they  occasionally  were.  ISTow  on  what 
slender  circumstances  do  the  fates  of  dogs  and  mortals 
hang.  Only  that  afternoon  Mr.  Jellybrand,  in  the  inno- 
cent self-confidence  of  his  heart,  had  agreed  with  Miss 
Maple,  an  elderly  and  bitter  spinster,  that  the  next  sewing 
meeting  of  the  Dorcas  Sisterhood  should  be  held  in  her 
house  and  not  at  the  Rectory.  He  had  told  Mrs.  Cole  of 
this  on  his  way  upstairs  to  the  nursery.  ISTow  Mrs.  Cole 
liked  the  Dorcas  meetings  at  the  Rectory;  she  liked  the 
cheerful  chatter,  the  hospitality,  the  gentle  scandal  and 
her  own  position  as  hostess. 

She  did  not  like — she  never  liked — Miss  Maple,  who 
was  always  pushing  herself  forward,  criticising  and  back- 
biting. Mr.  Jellybrand  should  not  have  settled  this  without 
consulting  her.     He  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  she 


THE  FAMILY  DOG  53 

would  agree.  He  had  said:  "I  agreed  with  Miss  Maple 
that  it  would  be  better  to  have  it  at  her  house.  I'm  sure 
you  will  think  as  I  do."  Why  should  he  be  sure  ?  Was 
he  not  forgetting  his  position  a  little  ?  .  .  . 

Kindest  woman  in  the  world,  she  had  seen  with  a 
strange  un-Christian  pleasure  the  dog's  advance  upon  the 
black  trousers.  Then  Mr.  Jellybrand  had  been  obviously 
afraid.  He  fancied,  perhaps,  that  she  too  had  l^een 
afraid.  He  fancied,  perhaps,  that  she  was  not  mistress 
in  her  house,  that  she  could  be  browbeaten  by  her  sister 
and  her  nurse. 

She  smiled  at  him.  "There's  no  reason  to  be  afraid, 
Mr.  Jellybrand.  .  .  .  He's  such  a  little  dog." 

Then  the  dog  smiled  at  her. 

"Poor  little  thing,"  she  said.  "He  must  have  nearly 
died  in  the  snow." 

Thus  Miss  Maple,  bitterest  of  spinsters,  influenced,  all 
unwitting,  the  lives  not  only  of  a  dog  and  a  curate,  but 
of  the  entire  Cole  family,  and  through  them,  of  endless 
generations  both  of  dogs  and  men  as  yet  unborn.  Miss 
Maple,  sitting  in  her  little  yellow-curtained  parlour  drink- 
ing, in  jaundiced  contentment,  her  afternoon's  cup  of  tea, 
was,  of  course,  unaware  of  this.  A  good  thing  that  she 
was  unaware — she  was  quite  conceited  enough  already. 


IV 

After  that  smiling  judgment  of  Mrs.  Cole's,  affairs 
were  quickly  settled. 

"Of  course  it  can  only  be  for  the  night,  children. 
Father  will  arrange  something  in  the  morning.  Poor 
little  thing.    Where  did  you  find  him  ?" 


54  JEREMY 

"We  saw  him  from  the  window,"  said  Jeremy  quickly, 
"and  he  was  shivering  like  anything,  so  we  called  him 
in  to  warm  him." 

"My  dear  Alice,  you  surely  don't  mean "  began 

Aunt    Amy,    and    the    Jampot    said:    "I    really    think. 

Mum ,"    and    Mr.    Jellybrand,    in    his    rich    voice, 

murmured:  "Is  it  quite  wise,  dear  Mrs.  Cole,  do  you 
think  ?" 

\Yith  thoughts  of  Miss  Maple  she  smiled  upon  them  all. 

"Oh,  for  one  night,  I  think  we  can  manage.  He  seems 
a  clean  little  dog,  and  really  we  can't  turn  him  out  into 
the  snow  at  once.  It  would  be  too  cruel.  But  mind, 
children,  it's  only  for  one  night.  He  looks  a  good  little 
dog." 

When  the  "quality"  had  departed,  Jeremy's  mind  was 
in  a  confused  condition  of  horror  and  delight.  Such  a 
victory  as  he  had  won  over  the  Jampot,  a  victory  that 
was  a  further  stage  in  the  fight  for  independence  begun 
on  his  birthday,  might  have  very  awful  qualities.  There 
would  begin  now  one  of  the  Jampot's  sulks — moods  well 
known  to  the  Cole  family,  and  lasting  from  a  day  to  a 
week,  according  to  the  gravity  of  the  offence.  Yes,  they 
had  already  begun.  There  she  sat  in  her  chair  by  the  fire, 
sewing,  sewing,  her  fat,  roly-poly  face  carved  into  a 
parody  of  deep  displeasure.  Life  would  be  very  unpleas- 
ant now.  ISTo  tops  of  eggs,  no  marmalade  on  toast,  no 
skins  of  milk,  no  stories  of  "when  I  was  a  young  girl," 
no  sitting  up  five  minutes  "later,"  no  stopping  in  the 
market-place  for  a  talk  with  the  banana  woman — only 
stern  insistence  on  every  detail  of  daily  life;  swift  judg- 
ment were  anything  left  undone  or  done  wrong. 

Jeremy  sighed;  yes,  it  would  be  horrid  and,  for  the 


THE  FAMILY  DOG  55 

sake  of  the  world  in  general,  which  meant  Mary  and 
Helen,  he  must  see  what  a  little  diplomacy  would  do. 
Kneeling  down  by  the  dog,  he  looked  up  into  her  face 
with  the  gaze  of  ingenuous  innocence. 

"You  wouldn't  have  wanted  the  poor  little  dog  to  have 
died  in  the  snow,  would  you,  Nurse?  ...  It  might,  you 
know.     It  won't  be  any  trouble,  I  expect " 

There  was  no  reply.  He  could  hear  Mary  and  Helen 
drawing  in  their  breaths  with  excited  attention. 

"Father  always  said  we  might  have  a  dog  one  day  when 
we  were  older — and  we  are  older  now." 

Still  no  word. 

"We'll  be  extra  good,  ISTurse,  if  you  don't  mind.  Don't 
you  remember  once  you  said  you  had  a  dog  when  you 
were  a  little  girl,  and  how  you  cried  when  it  had  its  ear 
bitten  oflF  by  a  nasty  big  dog,  and  how  your  mother  said 
she  wouldn't  have  it  fighting  round  the  house,  and  sent 
it  away,  and  you  cried,  and  cried,  and  cried,  and  how 
you  said  that  p'r'aps  we'll  have  one  one  day? — and  now 
we've  got  one." 

He  ended  triumphantly.  She  raised  her  eyes  for  one 
moment,  stared  at  them  all,  bit  off  a  piece  of  thread,  and 
said  in  deep,  sepulchral  tones: 

"Either  it  goes,  or  I  go." 

The  three  stared  at  one  another.  The  Jampot  go  ? 
Really  go?  .  .  .  They  could  hear  their  hearts  thimaping 
one  after  another.     The  Jampot  go  ? 

"Oh,  ISTurse,  would  you  really  ?"  whispered  Mary.  This 
innocent  remark  of  Mary's  conveyed  in  the  tone  of  it  more 
pleased  anticipation  than  was,  perhaps,  polite.  Certainly 
the  Jampot  felt  this ;  a  flood  of  colour  rose  into  her  face. 
Her  mouth  opened.     But  what  she  would  have  said  is 


56  JEEEMY 

uncertain,  for  at  that  very  moment  the  drama  was  further 
developed  by  the  slow  movement  of  the  door,  and  the 
revelation  of  half  of  Uncle  Samuel's  body,  clothed  in  its 
stained  blue  painting  smock,  and  his  ugly  fat  face  clothed 
in  its  usual  sarcastic  smile, 

''Excuse  me  one  moment,"  he  said;  "I  hear  you  have 
a  dog." 

The  Jampot  rose,  as  good  manners  demanded,  but  said 
nothing. 

''Where  is  the  creature?"  he  asked. 

The  new  addition  to  the  Cole  family  had  finished  his 
washing;  the  blazing  fire  had  almost  dried  him,  and  his 
hair  stuck  out  now  from  his  body  in  little  stiff  prickles, 
hedgehog  fashion,  giving  him  a  truly  original  appearance. 
His  beard  afforded  him  the  air  of  an  ambassador,  and 
his  grave,  melancholy  eyes  the  absorbed  introspection  of 
a  Spanish  hidalgo ;  his  tail,  however,  in  its  upright,  stumpy 
jocularity,  betrayed  his  dignity. 

"There  he  is,"  said  Jeremy,  with  a  glance  half  of  terror, 
half  of  delight,  at  the  Jampot.     "Isn't  he  lovely  ?" 

"Lovely.  My  word !"  Uncle  Samuel's  smile  broadened. 
"He's  about  the  most  hideous  mongrel  it's  ever  been  my 
lot  to  set  eyes  on.  But  he  has  his  points.  He  despises 
you  all,  I'm  glad  to  see." 

Jeremy,  as  usual  with  Uncle  Samuel,  was  uncertain  as 
to  his  sincerity. 

"He  looks  a  bit  funny  just  now,"  he  explained.  "He's 
been  drying  on  the  rug.  He'll  be  all  right  soon.  He 
wanted  to  bite  Mr.  Jellybrand.  It  was  funny.  Mr. 
Jellybrand  was  frightened  as  anything." 

"Yes,  that  must  have  been  delightful,"  agreed  Uncle 
Samuel.     "What's  his  name?" 


THE  FAMILY  DOG  57 

"We  haven't  given  him  one  yet.  Wouldn't  you  think 
of  one,  Uncle  Samuel  ?" 

The  uncle  considered  the  dog.  The  dog,  with  grave  and 
scornful  eyes,  considered  the  uncle. 

''Well,  if  you  really  ask  me,"  said  that  gentleman,  "if 
you  name  him  by  his  character  I  should  say  Hamlet  would 
he  as  good  as  anything." 

"What's  Hamlet?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"He  isn't  anything  just  now.  But  he  was  a  prince  who 
was  unhappy  because  he  thought  so  much  about  himself." 

"Hamlet'U  do,"  said  Jeremy  comfortably.  "I've  never 
heard  of  a  dog  called  that,  but  it's  easy  to  say." 

"Well,  I  must  go,"  said  Uncle  Samuel,  making  one 
of  his  usual  sudden  departures.  "Glad  to  have  seen  the 
animal.     Good-bye." 

He  vanished. 

"Hamlet,"  repeated  Jeremy  thoughtfully.  "I  wonder 
whether  he'll  like  that " 

His  attention,  however,  was  caught  by  the  Jampot's 
sudden  outburst. 

"All  of  them,"  she  cried,  "supporting  you  in  your 
wickedness  and  disobedience.  I  won't  'ave  it  nor  endure 
it  not  a  minute  longer.  They  can  'ave  my  notice  this 
moment,  and  I  won't  take  it  back,  not  if  they  ask  me  on 
their  bended  knees — no,  I  won't — and  that's  straight." 

For  an  instant  she  frowned  upon  them  all — then  she 
was  gone,  the  door  banging  after  her. 

They  gazed  at  one  another. 

There  was  a  dreadful  silence.  Once  Mary  whispered : 
"Suppose  she  really  does." 

Hamlet  only  was  unmoved. 

Ten  minutes  later.  Rose,  the  housemaid,  entered  witK 


58  JEEEMY 

tJie  tea-tilings.  Eor  a  little  she  was  silent.  Then  the 
three  faces  raised  to  hers  compelled  her  confidence. 

"i^urse  has  been  and  given  notice,"  she  said,  "and  the 
Missis  has  taken  it.  She's  going  at  the  end  of  the  month. 
She's  crying  now  in  the  kitchen." 

They  were  alone  again.  Mary  and  Helen  looked  at 
Jeremy  as  though  waiting  to  follow  his  lead.  He  did 
not  know  what  to  say.  There  was  Tragedy,  there  was 
Victory,  there  was  Kemorse,  there  was  Triumph.  He  was 
sorry,  he  was  glad.  His  eyes  fell  upon  Hamlet,  who  was 
now  stretched  out  upon  the  rug,  his  nose  between  his  paws, 
fast  asleep. 

Then  he  looked  at  his  sisters. 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "it's  awfully  nice  to  have  a  dog 
— anyway." 

Such  is  the  true  and  faithful  account  of  Hamlet's 
entrance  into  the  train  of  the  Coles. 


CHAPTER   III 

CHRISTMAS  PANTOMIME 


I  AM  sometimes  inclined  to  wonder  whether,  in  very 
truth,  those  Polchester  Christmases  of  nearly  thirty 
years  ago  were  so  marvellous  as  now  in  retrospect  they 
seem.  I  can  give  details  of  those  splendours,  facts  and 
figures,  that  to  the  onlooker  are  less  than  nothing  at  all — 
a  sugar  elephant  in  a  stocking,  a  box  of .  pencils  on  a 
Christmas  tree,  ''Hark,  the  Herald  Angels  .  .  ."  at  three 
in  the  morning  below  one's  window,  a  lighted  plum- 
pudding,  a  postman  four  hours  late,  his  back  bent  with 
bursting  parcels.  And  it  is  something  further — behind 
the  sugar  cherries  and  the  paper  caps  and  the  lighted  tree 
— that  remains  to  give  magic  to  those  days;  a  sense  of 
expectancy,  a  sense  of  richness,  a  sense  of  worship,  a  visit 
from  the  Three  Kings  who  have  so  seldom  come  to  visit 
one  since. 

That  Christmas  of  Jeremy's  ninth  year  was  one  of  the 
best  that  he  ever  had;  it  was  perhaps  the  last  of  the 
magical  Christmases.  After  this  he  was  to  know  too  much, 
was  to  see  Father  Christmas  vanish  before  a  sum  in  arith- 
metic, and  a  stocking  change  into  something  that  "boys 
who  go  to  school  never  have" — the  last  of  the  Christ- 
mases of  divine  magic,  when  the  snow  fell  and  the  waits 
sang  and  the  stockings  were  filled  and  the  turkey  fattened 

59 


60  JEEEMY 

and  the  candles  blazed  and  the  hollj  crackled  by  the  will 
of  God  rather  than  the  power  of  man.  It  would  be  many 
years  before  he  would  realise  that,  after  all,  in  those  early 
days  he  had  been  right.  .  .  . 

A  very  fat  book  could  be  written  about  all  that  had 
happened  during  that  wonderful  Christmas,  how  Hamlet 
the  Dog  caught  a  rat  to  his  own  immense  surprise;  how 
the  Coles'  Christmas  dinner  was  followed  by  a  play  acted 
with  complete  success  by  the  junior  members  of  the  fam- 
ily, and  it  was  only  Mr.  Jellybrand  the  curate  who  dis- 
approved; how  Aunt  Amy  had  a  new  dress  in  which,  by 
general  consent,  she  looked  ridiculous ;  how  Mary,  owing 
to  the  foolish  kindness  of  Mrs.  Bartholomew,  the  Pre- 
centor's wife,  was  introduced  to  the  works  of  Charlotte 
Mary  Yonge  and  became  quite  impossible  in  consequence ; 
how  Miss  Maple  had  a  children's  party  at  which  there 
was  nothing  to  eat,  so  that  all  the  children  cried  with 
disappointment,  and  one  small  boy  (the  youngest  son  of 
the  Precentor)  actually  bit  Miss  Maple;  how  for  two 
whole  days  it  really  seemed  that  there  would  be  skating 
on  The  Pool,  and  everyone  bought  skates,  and  then,  of 
course,  the  ice  broke,  and  so  on,  and  so  on  .  .  .  there  is 
no  end  to  the  dramatic  incidents  of  that  great  sensational 
time. 

The  theme  that  I  sing,  however,  is  Jeremy's  Progress, 
and  although  even  Hamlet's  catching  of  a  rat  influenced  his 
development,  there  was  one  incident  of  this  Christmas 
that  stands  out  and  away  from  all  the  others,  an  affair 
that  he  will  never  all  his  days  forget,  and  that  even  now, 
at  this  distance  of  time  and  experience,  causes  his  heart 
to  beat  roughly  with  the  remembered  excitement  and 
pleasure. 


CHEISTMAS  PANTOMIME  61 

Several  weeks  before  Christmas  there  appeared  upon 
the  town  walls  and  hoardings  the  pictured  announcements 
of  the  approaching  visit  to  Polchester  of  Denny's  Great 
Christmas  Pantomime  "Dick  Whittington."  Boxing  Night 
was  to  see  the  first  performance  at  our  Assembly  Rooms, 
and  during  every  afternoon  and  evening  of  the  next  three 
weeks  this  performance  was  to  be  repeated. 

A  pantomime  had,  I  believe,  never  visited  our  tovm 
before;  there  had,  of  course,  for  many  years  been  the 
Great  Christmas  Pantomime  at  the  Theatre  Eoyal,  Dry- 
mouth,  but  in  those  days  trains  were  not  easy,  and  if  you 
wished  to  attend  an  afternoon  performance  at  the  Dry- 
mouth  Theatre  you  must  rise  very  early  in  the  morning 
by  the  candle-light  and  return  late  in  the  evening,  with 
the  cab  forgetting  to  meet  you  at  the  station  as  com- 
manded, and  the  long  walk  up  Orange  Street,  and  a  head- 
ache and  a  bad  temper  next  day. 

It  happened  naturally  then  that  the  majority  of  the 
Polchester  children  had  never  set  their  inquisitive  noses 
within  the  doors  of  a  theatre,  and  although  the  two  eldest^ 
daughters  of  the  Dean,  aged  ten  and  eleven,  had  been  once 
to  London  and  to  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  their  sense  of 
glory  and  distinction  so  clouded  their  powers  of  accuracy 
and  clarity  that  we  were  no  nearer,  by  their  help  and 
authority,  to  the  understanding  of  what  a  pantomime 
might  really  be. 

I  can  myself  recall  the  glory  of  those  "Dick  Whitting- 
ton" pictures.  Just  above  Martin's  the  pastry-cook's 
(where  they  sold  lemon  biscuits),  near  the  Cathedral, 
there  was  a  big  wooden  hoarding,  and  on  to  this  was 
pasted  a  marvellous  representation  of  Dick  and  his  Cat 
dining  with  the  King  of  the  Zanzibar  Islands.     The  King, 


62  JEEEMY 

a  ]\Iiilatto,  sat  with  his  court  in  a  hall  with  golden  pillars, 
and  the  rats  were  to  be  seen  flying  in  a  confused  flood 
towards  the  golden  gates,  whilst  Dick,  in  red  plush  and 
diamond  buckles,  stood  in  dignified  majesty,  the  Cat  at 
his  side.  There  was  another  wonderful  picture  of  Dick 
asleep  at  the  Cross  Roads,  fairies  watching  over  him,  and 
London  Town  in  a  lighted  purple  distance — and  another 
of  the  streets  of  Old  London  with  a  comic  fat  serving  man, 
diamond-paned  windows,  cobblestones  and  high  pointing 
eaves  to  the  houses. 

Jeremy  saw  these  pictures  for  the  first  time  during  one 
of  his  afternoon  walks,  and  returned  home  in  such  a  state 
of  choking  excitement  that  he  could  not  drink  his  tea.  As 
was  ever  his  way  he  was  silent  and  controlled  about  the 
matter,  asked  very  few  questions,  and  although  he  talked 
to  himself  a  little  did  not  disturb  the  general  peace  of 
the  nursery.  On  Mary  and  Helen  the  effect  of  the  posters 
had  been  less.  Mary  was  following  the  adventures  of  the 
May  family  in  "The  Daisy  Chain,"  and  Helen  was  making 
necklaces  for  herself  out  of  a  box  of  beads  that  had  been 
given  her. 

When  Jeremy  said  once,  "Who  was  the  man  in  the  red 
trousers  with  gold  on  them?"  no  one  paid  any  attention 
save  Hamlet,  who  wagged  his  tail,  looked  wise  and  gTowled 
a  little. 

Who  indeed  could  tell  how  he  ached  and  longed  and 
desired  ?  He  had  a  very  vague  idea  as  to  the  nature  of  a 
play;  they  had  often  dressed  up  at  home  and  pretended 
to  be  different  things  and  people,  and,  of  course,  he  knew 
by  heart  the  whole  history  of  Dick  Whittington,  but  this 
knowledge  and  experience  did  not  in  the  least  force  him 
to  realise  that  this  performance  of  Mr.  Denny's  was  simply 


CHRISTMAS  PANTOMIME  63 

a  larger,  more  developed  "dressing  up"  and  pretending. 
In  some  mysterious  but  nevertheless  direct  fashion  Dick 
Whittington  was  coming  to  Polchester.  It  was  just  as  he 
had  heard  for  a  long  time  of  the  existence  of  Aunt  Emily 
who  lived  in  Manchester — and  then  one  day  she  appeared 
in  a  black  bonnet  and  a  shawl,  and  gave  them  wet  kisses 
and  sixpence  apiece. 

Dick  Whittington  was  coming,  having  perhaps  heard 
that  Polchester  was  a  very  jolly  place.  So  might  come 
any  day  Jack  of  the  Beanstalk,  Cinderella,  Queen  Vic- 
toria, and  God. 

There  were  questions  meanwhile  that  he  would  like  to 
ask,  but  he  was  already  a  victim  to  that  properly  English 
fear  of  making  a  fool  of  himself,  so  he  asked  nothing. 
He  dragged  out  his  toy  village  and  tried  to  make  it  a  bridge 
in  his  imagination  between  the  nursery  and  Whittington's 
world.  As  the  village  opened  a  door  from  the  nursery,  so 
might  Whittington  open  a  door  from  the  village. 

He  considered  Hamlet  and  wondered  whether  he  knew 
anything  about  it.  Hamlet,  in  spite  of  his  mongrel  appear- 
ance, was  a  very  clever  dog.  He  had  his  especial  corners 
in  the  garden,  the  kitchen  and  the  nursery.  He  never 
misbehaved,  was  never  in  the  way,  and  was  able  to  amuse 
himself  for  hours  together.  Although  he  attached  himself 
quite  deliberately  to  Jeremy,  he  did  this  in  no  sentimental 
fashion,  and  in  his  animosities  towards  the  Jampot, 
Aunt  Amy  and  the  boy  who  helped  with  the  boots  and 
the  knives,  he  was  always  restrained  and  courteous.  He 
did  indeed  growl  at  Aunt  Amy,  but  always  with  such  a 
sense  of  humour  that  everyone  (except  Aunt  Amy)  was 
charmed,  and  he  never  actually  supported  the  children 
in  their  rebellions  against  the  Jampot,  although  you  could 


64  JEEEMY 

see  that  he  liked  and  approved  of  such  things.  The  Jampot 
hated  him  with  a  passion  that  caused  the  nursery  to  quiver 
with  emotion.  ^Yas  he  not  the  cause  of  her  approaching 
departure,  his  first  appearance  having  led  her  into  a 
tempest  of  passion  that  had  caused  her  to  offer  a  "notice" 
that  she  had  never  for  an  instant  imagined  would  be 
accepted  ?  Was  he  not  a  devilish  dog  who,  with  his  quiet 
movements  and  sly  expressions,  was  more  than  human? 
"Mark  my  words,"  she  said  in  the  kitchen,  "there's  a 
devil  in  that  there  animal,  and  so  they'll  find  before  they're 
many  years  older — 'Amlet  indeed — a  'eathenish  name  and 
a  'eathenish  beast." 

Her  enemy  had  discovered  that  in  one  corner  of  the 
nursery  there  were  signs  and  symbols  that  witnessed  to 
something  in  the  nature  of  a  mouse  or  a  rat.  That  nursery 
corner  became  the  centre  of  all  his  more  adventurous 
instincts.  It  happened  to  be  just  the  corner  where  the 
Jampot  kept  her  sewing  machine,  and  you  would  think,  if 
you  came  to  the  nursery  as  a  stranger,  and  saw  him  sitting, 
his  eyes  fixed  beamingly  upon  the  machine,  his  tail  erect, 
and  his  body  here  and  there  quivering  a  little,  that  from 
duties  of  manly  devotion  he  was  protecting  the  Jampot's 
property.  She  knew  better;  she  regarded,  in  some  un- 
defined way,  this  continued  contemplation  by  him  of  her 
possessions  as  an  ironical  insult.  She  did  everything 
possible  to  drive  him  from  the  corner;  he  inevitably; 
returned,  and  as  he  always  delicately  stepped  aside  when 
she  approached,  it  could  not  be  said  that  he  was  in  her 
way.  Once  she  struck  him;  he  looked  at  her  in  such  a 
fashion  that  "her  flesh  crept."  .  .  .  She  never  struck  him 
again. 

For  Jeremy  he  became  more  and  more  of  a  delight.    He 


CHEISTMAS  PANTOMIME  65 

understood  so  much.  He  sympathised,  he  congratulated, 
he  sported,  always  at  the  right  moment.  He  would  sit 
gravely  at  Jeremy's  feet,  his  body  pressed  against  Jeremy's 
leg,  one  leg  stuck  out  square,  his  eyes  fixed  inquisitively 
upon  the  nursery  scene.  Ho  would  be  motionless;  then 
suddenly  some  thought  would  electrify  him — his  ears 
would  cock,  his  eyes  shine,  his  nose  quiver,  his  tail  tumble. 
The  crisis  would  pass ;  he  would  be  composed  once  more. 
He  would  slide  down  to  the  floor,  his  whole  body  collaps- 
ing; his  head  would  rest  upon  Jeremy's  foot;  he  would 
dream  of  cats,  of  rats,  of  birds,  of  the  Jampot,  of  beef 
and  gravy,  of  sugar,  of  being  washed,  of  the  dogs'  Valhalla, 
of  fire  and  warmth,  of  Jeremy,  of  walks  when  every  piece 
of  flying  paper  was  a  challenge,  of  dogs,  dogs  that  he  had 
known  of  when  he  was  a  puppy,  of  doing  things  he 
shouldn't,  of  punishment  and  wisdom,  pride  and  anger,  of 
love-affairs  of  his  youth,  of  battle,  of  settling-down,  of  love- 
affairs  in  the  future,  again  of  cats  and  beef,  and  smells — 
smells — smells,  again  of  Jeremy,  whom  he  loved.  And 
Jeremy,  watching  him  now,  thus  sleeping,  and  thinking  of 
Dick  Whitting-ton,  -Wondered  why  it  was  that  a  dog  would 
understand  so  easily,  without  explanations,  the  thoughts 
and  desires  he  had,  and  that  all  grown-up  people  would  not 
understand,  and  would  demand  so  many  explanations,  and 
■would  laugh  at  one,  and  pity  one,  and  despise  one.  Why 
was  it  ?  he  asked  himself. 

"I  know,"  he  suddenly  cried,  turning  upon  Helen;  "it 
can  be  your  birthday  treat !" 

"What  can?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  going  to  Dick  Whittington — all  of  us." 

Helen  had,  most  unfortunately  for  herself,  a  birthday 
only  a  week  after  Christmas,  the  result  being  that,  in  her 


66  JEREMY 

own  opinion  at  any  rate,  she  never  received  "proper  pres- 
ents" on  either  of  those  two  great  present-giving  occasions. 
She  was  always  allowed,  however,  a  "treat" ;  her  requests 
were  generally  in  the  nature  of  food ;  once  of  a  ride  in  the 
train;  once  even  a  visit  to  the  Polchester  Museum.  .  .  . 
It  was  difficult  in  those  days  to  find  "treats"  in  Polchester. 

"Oh,  do  you  think  they'd  let  us?"  she  said,  her  eyes 
wide. 

"We  can  try,"  said  Jeremy.  "I  heard  Aunt  Amy  say 
the  other  day  that  she  didn't  think  it  was  right  for  children 
to  see  acting,  and  Mother  always  does  the  opposite  to 
what  Aunt  Amy  says,  so  p'r'aps  it  will  be  all  right.  I 
wish  Hamlet  could  go,"  he  added. 

"Don't  be  silly!"  said  Helen. 

"It  isn't  silly,"  Jeremy  said  indignantly.  "It's  all  about 
a  cat,  anyway,  and  he'd  love  to  see  all  the  rats  and  things. 
He  wouldn't  bark  if  we  told  him  not  to,  and  I  held  his 
collar." 

"If  Aunt  Amy  sat  next  him  he  would,"  said  Mary. 

"Oh,  bother  Aunt  Amy,"  said  Jeremy. 

After  this  Helen  needed  a  great  deal  of  urging;  but 
she  heard  that  Lucy  and  Angela,  the  aforesaid  daughters 
of  the  Dean,  were  going,  and  the  spirit  of  rivalry  drove 
her  forward. 

It  happened  that  the  Dean  himself  one  day  said  some- 
thing to  Mr.  Cole  about  "supporting  a  very  praiseworthy 
effort.  They  are  presenting,  I  understand,  the  proceeds 
of  the  first  performance  to  the  Cathedral  Orphanage." 

Helen  was  surprised  at  the  readiness  with  which  her 
request  was  granted. 

"We'll  all  go,"  said  Mr.  Cole,  in  his  genial,  pastoral 


CHRISTMAS  PANTOMIME  67 

fashion.     ''Good  for  us  .  .  .  good  for  us  ...  to  see  the 
little  ones  laugh  .  .  .  good  for  us  all." 

Only  Uncle  Samuel  said  "that  nothing  would  induce 
him " 

n 

I  pass  swiftly  over  Christmas  Eve,  Christmas  Day,  and 
the  day  after,  although  I  should  like  to  linger  upon  these 
sumptuous  dates.  Jeremy  had  a  sumptuous  time ;  Hamlet 
had  a  sumptuous  time  (a  whole  sugar  rat,  plates  and  plates 
of  bones,  and  a  shoe  of  Aunt  Amy's)  ;  Mary  and  Helen 
had  sumptuous  times  in  their  own  feminine  fashion. 

Upon  the  evening  of  Christmas  Eve,  when  the  earth 
was  snow-lit,  and  the  street-lamps  sparkled  with  crystals, 
and  the  rime  on  the  doorsteps  crackled  beneath  one's  feet, 
Jeremy  accompanied  his  mother  on  a  present-leaving  expe- 
dition. The  excitement  of  that !  The  wonderful  shapeg 
and  sizes  of  the  parcels,  the  mysterious  streets,  the  door- 
handles and  the  door-bells,  the  glittering  stars,  the  maid- 
servants, the  sense  of  the  lighted  house,  as  though  you 
opened  a  box  full  of  excitements  and  then  hurriedly  shut 
the  lid  down  again.  Jeremy  trembled  and  shook,  not  with 
cold,  but  with  exalting,  completely  satisfying  happiness. 

There  followed  the  Stocking,  the  Waits,  the  Carols,  the 
Turkey,  the  Christmas  Cake,  the  Tree,  the  Presents, 
Snapdragon,  Bed.  .  .  .  There  followed  Headache,  Ill- 
temper,  Smacking  of  Mary,  Afternoon  Walk,  Good  Tem- 
per again.  Complete  Weariness,  Hamlet  sick  on  the  Golden 
Cockatoos,  Hamlet  Beaten,  Five  minutes  with  Mother 
downstairs.  Bed.  .  .  .  Christmas  was  over. 

From  that  moment  of  the  passing  of  Boxing  Day  it  was 
simply  the  counting  of  the  minutes  to  "Dick  Whittington." 


68  JEREMY 

Six  days  from  Boxing  Day.  Say  you  slept  from  eight  to 
seven — eleven  hours ;  that  left  thirteen  hours ;  six  thirteen 
hours  was,  so  Helen  said,  seventy-eight.  Seventy-eight 
hours,  and  Sunday  twice  as  long  as  the  other  days,  and 
that  made  thirteen  more;  ninety-one,  said  Helen,  her  nose 
in  the  air. 

The  week  dragged  along,  very  difficult  work  for  every- 
body, and  even  Hamlet  felt  the  excitement  and  watched  his 
corner  with  the  Jampot's  sewing  machine  in  it  with  more 
quivering  intensity  than  ever.  The  Day  Before  The  Day 
arrived,  the  evening  before  The  Day,  the  last  supper 
before  The  Day,  the  last  bed  before  The  Day.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly, like  a  Jack-in-the-Box,  The  Day  itself. 

Then  the  awful  thing  happened. 

Jeremy  awoke  to  the  consciousness  that  something 
terrific  was  about  to  occur.  He  lay  for  a  minute  thinking 
— then  he  was  up,  running  about  the  nursery  floor  as 
though  he  were  a  young  man  in  Mr.  Rossetti's  poetry 
shouting :  "Helen !  Mary !  Mary !  Helen !  .  .  .  It's  Dick 
Whittington!    Dick  Whittington!" 

On  such  occasions  he  lost  entirely  his  natural  reserve 
and  caution.  He  dressed  with  immense  speed,  as  though 
that  would  hasten  the  coming  of  the  evening.  He  ran  into 
the  nursery,  carrying  the  black  tie  that  went  under  his 
sailor-collar. 

He  held  it  out  to  the  Jampot,  who  eyed  him  with  dis- 
favour. She  was  leaving  them  all  in  a  week  and  was  a 
strange  confusion  of  sentiment  and  bad  temper,  love  and 
hatred,  wounded  pride  and  injured  dignity. 

"ISTurse.    Please.    Fasten  it,"  he  said  impatiently. 

"And  that's  not  the  way  to  speak,  Master  Jeremy,  and 


CHEISTMAS  PA:NT0MIME  69 

well  you  know  it,"  she  said.  "  'Ave  you  cleaned  your 
teeth  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  without  hesitation.  It  was  not 
until  the  word  was  spoken  that  he  realised  that  he  had 
not.  He  flushed.  The  Jampot  eyed  him  with  a  sudden 
sharp  suspicion.  He  was  then  and  ever  afterwards  a  very 
bad  hand  at  a  lie.  .  .  . 

He  would  have  taken  the  word  back,  he  wanted  to  take 
it  back — but  something  held  him  as  though  a  stronger 
than  he  had  placed  his  hand  over  his  mouth.  His  face 
flamed. 

''You've  truly  cleaned  them  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  truly,"  he  answered,  his  eyes  on  the  ground- 
Xever  was  there  a  more  obvious  liar  in  all  the  world. 

She  said  no  more;  he  moved  to  the  fireplace.  His  joy 
was  gone.  There  was  a  cold  clammy  sensation  about  his 
heart.  Slowly,  very  slowly,  the  consciousness  stole  upon 
him  that  he  was  a  liar.  He  had  not  thought  it  a  lie  when 
he  had  first  spoken,  now  he  knew. 

Still  there  was  time.  Had  he  turned  round  and  spoken, 
all  might  still  have  been  well.  But  now  obstinacy  held 
him.  He  was  not  going  to  give  the  Jampot  an  opportunity 
for  triumphing  over  him.  After  all,  he  would  clean  them 
so  soon  as  she  went  to  brush  Helen's  hair.  In  a  moment 
what  he  had  said  would  be  true. 

But  he  was  miserable.  Hamlet  came  up  from  the  nether 
regions  where  he  had  spent  the  night,  showing  his  teeth, 
wagging  his  tail,  and  even  rolling  on  the  cockatoos.  Jeremy 
paid  no  attention.  The  weight  in  his  heart  grew  heavier 
and  heavier.  He  watched,  from  under  his  eyelids,  the 
Jampot.  In  a  moment  she  must  go  into  Helen's  room. 
But  she  did  not.     She  stayed  for  a  little  arranging  the 


70  JEREMY 

things  on  the  breakfast-table — then  suddenly,  without  a 
word,  she  turned  into  Jeremy's  bedchamber.  His  heart 
began  to  hammer.  There  was  an  awful  pause;  he  heard 
from  miles  away  Mary's  voice :  "Do  do  that  button,  Helen, 
I  can't  get  it !"  and  Helen's  "Oh,  bother !" 

Then,  like  Judgment,  the  Jampot  appeared  again.  She 
stood  in  the  doorway,  looking  across  at  him. 

"You  'ave  not  cleaned  your  teeth.  Master  Jeremy,"  she 
said.  "The  glass  isn't  touched,  nor  your  toothbrush.  .  .  . 
You  wicked,  wicked  boy.  So  it's  a  liar  you've  become, 
added  on  to  all  your  other  wickedness." 

"I  forgot,"  he  muttered  sullenly.     "I  thought  I  had." 

She  smiled  the  smile  of  approaching  triumph. 

"1^0,  you  did  not,"  she  said.  "You  knew  you'd  told  a 
lie.    It  was  in  your  face.    All  of  a  piece — all  of  a  piece." 

The  way  she  said  this,  like  a  pirate  counting  over  his 
captured  treasure,  was  enraging.  Jeremy  could  feel  the 
wild  fury  at  himself,  at  her,  at  the  stupid  blunder  of  the 
whole  business  rising  to  his  throat. 

"If  you  think  I'm  going  to  let  this  pass  you're  making 
a  mighty  mistake,"  she  continued,  "which  I  wouldn't  do 
not  if  you  paid  me  all  the  gold  in  the  kingdom.  I  mayn't 
be  good  enough  to  keep  my  place  and  look  after  such  as 
you,  but  anyways  I'm  able  to  stop  your  lying  for  another 
week  or  two.  I  know  my  duty  even  though  there's  them 
as  thinks  I  don't." 

She  positively  snorted,  and  the  excitement  of  her  own 
vindication  and  the  just  condemnation  of  Jeremy  was 
such  that  her  hands  trembled. 

"I  don't  care  what  you  do,"  Jeremy  shouted.  "You  can 
tell  anyone  you  like.  I  don't  care  what  you  do.  You're 
a  beastly  woman." 


CHRISTMAS  PA2TT0MIME  71 

She  turned  upon  him,  her  face  purple.  "That's 
enough,  Master  Jeremy,"  she  said,  her  voice  low  and 
trembling.  "I'm  not  here  to  be  called  names  by  such  as 
you.  You'll  be  sorry  for  this  before  you're  much  older. 
.  .  .  You  see." 

There  was  then  an  awful  and  sickly  pause.  Jeremy 
seemed  to  himself  to  be  sinking  lower  and  lower  into  a 
damp  clammy  depth  of  degradation.  What  must  this 
world  be  that  it  could  change  itself  so  instantly  from  a 
place  of  gay  and  happy  pleasure  into  a  dim  groping  room 
of  punishment  and  dismay  ? 

His  feelings  were  utterly  confused.  He  supposed  that 
he  was  terribly  wicked.  But  he  did  not  feel  wicked.  He 
only  felt  miserable,  sick  and  defiant.  Mary  and  Helen 
came  in,  their  eyes  open  to  a  crisis,  their  bodies  tuned 
sympathetically  to  the  atmosphere  of  sin  and  crime  that 
they  discerned  around  them. 

Then  Mr.  Cole  came  in  as  was  his  daily  habit — for  a 
moment  before  his  breakfast. 

"Well,  here  are  you  all,"  he  cried.  "Eeady  for 
to-night  ?    ^o  breakfast  yet  ?    Why,  now  .  .  .  V 

Then  perceiving,  as  all  practised  fathers  instantly  must, 
that  the  atmosphere  was  sinful,  he  changed  his  voice  to 
that  of  the  Children's  Sunday  Afternoon  Service — a  voice 
well  known  in  his  family. 

"Please,  sir,"  began  the  Jampot,  "I'm  sorry  to  'ave  to 
tell  you,  sir,  that  Master  Jeremy's  not  been  at  all  good 
this  morning." 

"Well,  Jeremy,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  son,  "what  is 
it?" 

Jeremy's  face,  raised  to  his  father's,  was  hard  and  set 
and  sullen. 


Y2  JEEEMY 

"I've  told  a  lie,"  he  said ;  "I  said  I'd  cleaned  my  teett 
when  I  hadn't.  Xurse  went  and  looked,  and  then  I  called 
her  a  beastly  woman." 

The  Jampot's  face  expressed  a  grieved  and  at  the  same 
time  triumphant  confirmation  of  this. 

"You  told  a  lie?"  Mr.  Cole's  voice  was  full  of  a 
lingering  sorrow. 

"Yes,"  said  Jeremy. 

"Are  you  sorry  ?" 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  told  a  lie,  but  I'm  not  sorry  I  called 
!N"iirse  a  beastly  woman." 

"Jeremy !" 

"Xo,  I'm  not.    She  is  a  beastly  woman." 

Mr.  Cole  was  always  at  a  loss  when  anyone  defied  him, 
even  though  it  were  only  a  small  boy  of  eight.  He  took 
refuge  now  in  his  ecclesiastical  and  parental  authority. 

"I'm  very  distressed — very  distressed  indeed.  I  hope 
that  punishment,  Jeremy,  will  show  you  how  wrong  you 
have  been.  I'm  afraid  you  cannot  come  with  us  to  the 
Pantomime  to-night." 

At  that  judgment  a  quiver  for  an  instant  held  Jeremy's 
face,  turning  it,  for  that  moment,  into  something  shapeless 
and  old.  His  heart  had  given  a  wild  leap  of  terror  and 
dismay.  But  he  showed  no  further  sign.  He  simply  stood 
there  waiting. 

Mr.  Cole  was  baffled,  as  he  always  was  by  Jeremy's 
moods,  so  he  continued : 

"And  until  you've  apologised  to  Xurse  for  your  rude- 
ness you  must  remain  by  yourself.  I  shall  forbid  your 
sisters  to  speak  to  you.  Mary  and  Helen,  you  are  not  to 
speak  to  your  brother  until  he  has  apologised  to  ISTurse." 

"Yes,  Father,"  said  Helen. 


CHRISTMAS  PAJ^TOMIME  73 

'^Oh,  Father,  mayn't  he  come  to-night  ?"  said  Mary. 

"^o,  Mary,  I'm  afraid  not." 

A  tear  rolled  down  her  cheek.  "It  won't  be  any  fun 
without  Jeremy,"  she  said.  She  wished  to  make  the 
further  sacrifice  of  saying  that  she  would  not  go  unless 
Jeremy  did,  but  some  natural  caution  restrained  her. 

Mr.  Cole,  his  fax3e  heavy  with  sorrow,  departed. 

At  the  dumb  misery  of  Jeremy's  face  the  Jampot's 
heart — in  reality  a  kind  and  even  sentimental  heart — 
repented  her. 

"There,  Master  Jeremy,  you  be  a  good  boy  all  day,  and 
I  dare  say  your  father  will  take  you,  after  all;  and  we 
won't  think  no  more  about  what  you  said  to  me  in  the 
'eat  of  the  moment." 

But  Jeremy  answered  nothing;  nor  did  he  respond  to 
the  smell  of  bacon,  nor  the  advances  of  Hamlet,  nor  the 
flood  of  sunlight  that  poured  into  the  room  from  the  frosty 
world  outside. 

A  com-plete  catastrophe.  They  none  of  them  had  wanted 
to  see  this  thing  with  the  urgent  excitement  that  he  had 
felt.  They  had  not  dreamt  of  it  for  days  and  nights  and 
nights  and  days,  as  he  had  done.  Their  whole  future 
existence  did  not  depend  upon  their  witnessing  this,  as 
did  his. 

During  that  morning  he  was  a  desperate  creature,  like 
something  caged  and  tortured.  Do  happy  middle-aged 
philosophers  assure  us  that  children  are  light-hearted 
and  unfeeling  animals  ?  Let  them  realise  something  of 
the  agony  which  Jeremy  suffered  that  day.  His  whole 
world  had  gone.  » 

He  was  wicked,  an  outcast;  his  word  could  never  be 
trusted  again ;  he  would  be  pointed  at  as  the  boy  who  had 


Y4  JEEEMY 

told  a  lie.  .  .  .  And  lie  would  not  meet  Dick  Whittington. 

The  eternity  of  his  punishment  hung  around  his  neck 
like  an  iron  chain.  Childhood's  tragedies  are  terrible 
tragedies,  because  a  child  has  no  sense  of  time;  a  mo- 
ment's dismay  is  eternal;  a  careless  word  from  an  elder 
is  a  lasting  judgment;  an  instant's  folly  is  a  lifetime's 
mistake. 

The  day  dragged  its  weary  length  along,  and  he  scarcely 
moved  from  his  corner  by  the  fire.  He  did  not  attempt 
conversation  with  anyone.  Once  or  twice  the  Jampot  tried 
to  penetrate  behind  that  little  mask  of  anger  and  dismay. 

"Come,  now,  things  aren't  so  bad  as  all  that.  You  be 
a  good  boy,  and  go  and  tell  your  father  you're  sorry.  .  .  ." 
or  ""Well,  then.  Master  Jeremy,  there'll  be  another  time,  I 
dare  say,  you  can  go  to  the  the-ayter.  .  .  ." 

'But  she  found  no  response.  If  there  was  one  thing  that 
she  hated,  it  was  sulks.  Here  they  were,  sulks  of  the 
worst — and  so,  like  many  wiser  than  herself,  she  covered 
up  with  a  word  a  situation  that  she  did  not  understand, 
and  left  it  at  that. 

The  evening  came  on;  the  curtains  were  drawn.  Tea 
arrived;  still  Jeremy  sat  there,  not  speaking,  not  raising 
his  eyes,  a  condemned  creature.  Mary  and  Helen  and 
Hamlet  had  had  a  wretched  day.  They  all  sjnnpathised 
with  him. 

The  girls  went  to  dress.  Seven  o'clock  struck.  They 
were  taken  downstairs  by  ISTurse,  who  had  her  evening  out. 
Rose,  the  housemaid,  would  sit  with  Master  Jeremy. 

Doors  closed,  doors  opened,  voices  echoed,  carriage- 
wheels  were  heard. 

Jeremy  and  Hamlet  were  left  to  themselves.  .  .  . 


CHRISTMAS  PANTOMIME  75 


III 


The  last  door  had  closed,  and  the  sudden  sense  that 
everyone  had  gone  and  that  he  might  behave  now  as  he 
pleased,  removed  the  armour  in  which  all  day  he  had 
encased  himself. 

He  raised  his  head,  looked  about  the  deserted  nursery, 
and  then,  with  the  sudden  consciousness  of  that  other 
lighted  and  busied  place  where  Whittington  was  pursuing 
his  adventures,  he  burst  into  tears.  He  sobbed,  his  head 
down  upon  his  arms,  and  his  body  squeezed  together  so 
that  his  knees  were  close  to  his  nose  and  his  hair  in  his 
boots.  Hamlet  restored  him  to  himself.  Instead  of  assist- 
ing his  master's  grief,  as  a  sentimental  dog  would  have 
done,  by  sighing  o(c  sniffing  or  howling,  he  yawned, 
stretched  himself,  and  rolled  on  the  carpet.  He  did  not 
believe  in  giving  way  to  feelings,  and  he  was  surprised, 
and  perhaps  disappointed,  at  Jeremy's  lack  of  restraint. 

Jeremy  felt  this,  and  in  a  little  while  sobs  came  very 
slowly,  and  at  last  were  only  little  shudders,  rather  pleasant 
and  healthy.  He  looked  about  him,  rubbed  his  red  nose 
with  a  hideously  dirty  handkerchief,  and  felt  immensely 
sleepy. 

No,  he  would  not  cry  any  more.  Eose  would  shortly 
appear,  and  he  did  not  intend  to  cry  before  housemaids. 
Nevertheless,  his  desolation  was  supreme.  He  was  a  liar. 
He  had  told  lies  before,  but  they  had  not  been  discovered, 
and  so  they  were  scarcely  lies.  .  .  .  Now,  in  some  strange 
■way,  the  publication  of  his  lie  had  shown  him  what  truly 
impossible  things  lies  were.  He  had  witnessed  this  effect 
upon  the  general  public ;  he  had  not  believed  that  he  was 
so  wicked.     He  did  not  even  now  feel  really  wicked,  but 


76  JEREMY 

he  saw  quite  clearly  that  there  was  one  world  for  liars 
and  one  for  truthful  men.  lie  wanted,  terribly  badly, 
someone  to  tell  him  that  he  was  still  in  the  right  world.  .  .  . 

And  then,  on  the  other  side,  the  thought  that  Mary  and 
Helen  were  at  this  very  moment  witnessing  the  coloured 
history  of  Dick  Whittington,  the  history  that  he  had  pur- 
sued ceaselessly  during  all  these  days  and  nights — that 
picture  of  them  all  in  the  lighted  theatre — once  more  nearly 
overcame  him.    But  he  pulled  himself  together. 

He  sniffed,  left  his  dirty  handkerchief,  and  went  slowly 
and  sorrowfully  to  drag  out  his  toy  village  from  its  corner 
and  see  whether  anything  could  be  done  with  it.  .  .  . 
After  all,  he  was  going  to  school  in  September.  His  pun- 
ishment could  not  be  quite  limitless.  Hamlet  had  just 
shown  his  approval  of  this  manly  conduct  by  strolling  up 
and  sniffing  at  the  ISToah  family,  who  were,  as  usual,  on 
their  way  to  church,  when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and 
in  came  Uncle  Samuel. 

Jeremy  had  forgotten  his  uncle,  and  now  blinked  up  at 
him  from  the  floor,  where  he  was  squatting,  rather  ashamed 
of  his  swollen  eyes  and  red  nose. 

Uncle  Samuel,  however,  had  no  time  for  details;  he 
was  apparently  in  a  hurry.  He  did  not  wear  his  blue 
painting-smock,  but  was  in  a  comparatively  clean  black 
suit,  and  on  the  back  of  his  head  was  a  squashy  brown  hat. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  "or  we  shall  be  too  late." 

Jeremy  choked.     "Too  late?"  he  repeated. 

"You're  coming,  aren't  you — to  the  Pantomime  ?  They 
sent  me  back  for  you." 

The  room  suddenly  got  on  to  its  legs,  like  the  food  and 
the  families  during  Alice's  feast  in  the  "Looking  Glass," 
and  swung  round,  lurching  from  side  to  side,  and  causing 


CHRISTMAS  PANTOMIME  77 

the  fire  to  run  into  the  gas  and  the  gas  to  fly  out  of  the 
"window. 

"I — don't — understand,"  Jeremy  stammered. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  understand  in  half  a  shake,"  said 
Uncle  Samuel,  "you  won't  see  any  of  the  show  at  all.  Go 
on.  Wash  your  face.  There  are  streaks  of  dirt  all  down 
it  as  though  you  were  a  painted  Indian;  stick  on  your 
cap  and  coat  and  hoots  and  come  along." 

Exactly  as  one  moves  in  sleep  so  Jeremy  now  moved. 
He  had  once  had  a  wonderful  dream,  in  which  he  had 
been  at  a  meal  that  included  everything  "that  he  had  most 
loved — fish-cakes,  sausages,  ices,  strawberry  jam,  sponge- 
cake, chocolates,  and  scrambled  eggs — and  he  had  been 
able  to  eat,  and  eat,  and  had  never  been  satisfied,  and  had 
never  felt  sick — a  lovely  dream. 

He  often  thought  of  it.  And  now  in  the  same  bewilder- 
ing fashion  he  found  his  boots  and  cap  and  coat  and  then, 
deliberately  keeping  from  him  the  thought  of  the  Panto- 
mime lest  he  should  suddenly  wake  up,  he  said: 

"I'm  ready.  Uncle." 

Samuel  Trefusis  looked  at  him. 

"You're  a  strange  kid,"  he  said;  "you  take  everything 
so  quietly — but,  thank  God,  I  don't  understand  children." 

"There's  Hamlet,"  said  Jeremy,  wondering  whether 
perhaps  the  dream  would  extend  to  his  friend.  "I  sup- 
pose he  can't  come  too." 

"No,  he  certainly  can't,"  said  Uncle  Samuel  grimly. 

"And  there's  Rose.     She'll  wonder  where  I've  gone." 

"I've  told  her.  Don't  you  worry.  What  a  conscientious 
infant  you  are.     Just  like  your  father.     Anything  else?" 

"No,"  said  Jeremy  breathlessly,  and  nearly  murdered 
himself  going  downstairs  because  he  shut  his  eyes  in 


78  JEREMY 

order  to  continue  the  dream  so  long  as  it  was  possible. 
Then  in  the  cold  night  air,  grasping  his  uncle's  hand  with 
a  feverish  hold,  he  stammered: 

''Is  it  really  true  ?    Are  we  going — really  ?" 

"Of  course  we're  going.  Come  on — step  out  or  you'll 
miss  the  Giant." 

''But — but — oh !"  he  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Then  they 
don't  think  me  a  liar  any  more  ?" 

"They— who  ?" 

"Father  and  Mother  and  everyone." 

"Don't  you  think  about  them.  You'd  better  enjoy 
yourself." 

"But  you  said  you  wouldn't  go  to  the  Pantomime — ^not 
for  anything  ?" 

"Well,  I've  changed  my  mind.  Don't  talk  so  much. 
You  know  I  hate  you  children  chattering.  Always  got 
something  to  say." 

So  Jeremy  was  silent.  They  raced  down  Orange  Street, 
Jeremy  being  almost  carried  off  his  feet.  This  was  exactly 
like  a  dream.  This  rushing  movement  and  the  way  that 
ithe  lamp-posts  ran  up  to  you  as  though  they  were  going 
to  knock  you  down,  and  the  way  that  the  stars  crackled  and 
sputtered  and  trembled  overhead.  But  Uncle  Samuel's 
hand  was  flesh  and  blood,  and  the  heel  of  Jeremy's  right 
shoe  hurt  him  and  he  felt  the  tickle  of  his  sailor-collar  at 
the  back  of  his  neck,  just  as  he  did  when  he  was  awake. 

Then  there  they  were  at  the  Assembly  Eooms  door, 
Jeremy  having  become  so  breathless  that  Uncle  Samuel 
had  to  hold  him  up  for  a  moment  or  he'd  have  fallen. 

"Bit  too  fast  for  you,  was  it  ?  Well,  you  shouldn't  be 
so  fat.  You  eat  too  much.  ISTow  we're  not  going  to  sit 
with  your  father  and  mother — there  isn't  room  for  you 


CHEISTMAS  PANTOMIME  79 

there.  So  don't  you  go  calling  out  to  them  or  anything. 
We're  sitting  in  the  back  and  you'd  better  be  quiet  or 
they'll  turn  you  out." 

"I'll  be  quiet,"  gasped  Jeremy. 

Uncle  Samuel  paused  at  a  lighted  hole  in  the  wall  and 
spoke  to  a  large  lady  in  black  silk  who  was  drinking  a  cup 
of  tea.  Jeremy  caught  the  jingle  of  money.  Then  they 
moved  forward,  stumbling  in  the  dark  up  a  number  of 
stone  steps,  pushing  at  a  heavy  black  curtain,  then  sud- 
denly bathed  in  a  bewildering  glow  of  light  and  scent  and 
colour. 

Jeremy's  first  impression,  as  he  fell  into  this  new  world, 
was  of  an  ugly,  harsh,  but  funny  voice  crying  out  very 
loudly  indeed :  ''Oh,  my  great  aunt !  Oh,  my  great  aunt ! 
Oh,  my  great  aunt !"  A  roar  of  laughter  rose  about  him, 
almost  lifting  him  off  his  feet,  and  close  to  his  ear  a 
Glebeshire  voice  sobbed:  "Eh,  my  dear.  Poor  worm! 
Poor  worm !" 

He  was  aware  then  of  a  strong  smell  of  oranges,  of 
Uncle  Samuel  pushing  him  forward,  of  stumbling  over 
boots,  knees,  an'd  large  hands  that  were  clapping  in  his 
very  nose,  of  falling  into  a  seat  and  then  clinging  to  it  as 
though  it  was  his  only  hope  in  this  strange  puzzling  world. 
The  high  funny  voice  rose  again:  "Oh,  my  great  aunt! 
Oh,  my  great  aunt  I"  And  again  it  was  followed  by  the 
rough  roar  of  delighted  laughter. 

He  was  aware  then  that  about  him  on  every  side  gas 
was  sizzling,  and  then,  as  he  recovered  slowly  his  breath, 
his  gaze  was  drawn  to  the  great  blaze  of  light  in  the 
distance,  against  which  figTires  were  dimly  moving,  and 
from  the  heart  of  which  the  strange  voice  came.  He  heard 
a  woman's  voice,  then  several  voices  together;  then  sud- 


80  JEEEMY 

denly  the  whole  scene  shifted  into  focus,  his  eyes  were 
tied  to  the  light ;  the  oranges  and  the  gas  and  the  smell 
of  clothes  and  heated  bodies  slipped  back  into  distance — 
he  was  caught  into  the  world  where  he  had  longed  to  be. 

Ho  saw  that  it  was  a  shop — and  he  loved  shops.  His 
heart  beat  thickly  as  his  eyes  travelled  up  and  up  and  up 
over  the  rows  and  rows  of  shelves;  here  were  bales  of 
cloth,  red  and  green  and  blue;  carpets  from  the  East, 
table-covers,  sheets  and  blankets.  Behind  the  long  yellow 
counters  young  men  in  strange  clothes  were  standing.  In 
the  middle  of  the  scene  was  a  funny  old  woman,  her  hat 
tumbling  off  her  head,  her  shabby  skirt  dragging,  large 
boots,  and  a  red  nose.  It  was  from  this  strange  creature 
that  the  deep  ugly  voice  proceeded.  She  had,  this  old 
woman,  a  number  of  bales  of  cloth  under  her  arms,  and  she 
tried  to  carry  them  all,  but  one  slipped,  and  then  another, 
and  then  another;  she  bent  to  pick  them  up  and  her  hat 
fell  off;  she  turned  for  her  hat  and  all  the  bales  tumbled 
together.  Jeremy  began  to  laugh — everyone  laughed ;  the 
strange  voice  came  again  and  again,  lamenting,  bewailing, 
she  had  secured  one  bale,  a  smile  of  cautious  triumph  began 
to  spread  over  her  ugly  face,  then  the  bales  all  fell  again, 
and  once  more  she  was  on  her  knees.  It  was  then  that 
her  voice  or  some  movement  brought  to  Jeremy's  eyes  so 
vividly  the  figure  of  their  old  gardener,  Jordan,  that  he 
turned  round  to  Uncle  Samuel,  and  suddenly  grasping 
that  gentleman's  fat  thigh,  exclaimed  convulsively :  "Why, 
she's  a  man !" 

What  a  strange  topsy-turvy  world  this  was  in  which 
women  were  men,  and  shops  turned  (as  with  a  sudden 
creaking  and  darkness  and  clattering  did  this  one)  into 
gardens  by  the  sea.     Jeremy  drew  his  breath  deeply  and 


CHRISTMAS  PAJtTTOMIME  81 

held  on.     His  mouth  was  open  and  his  hair  on  end.  .  .  . 

It  is  impossible  to  define  exactly  Jeremy's  ultimate 
impression  as  the  entertainment  proceeded.  Perhaps  he  had 
no  ultimate  impression.  It  cannot  in  reality  have  been  a 
very  wonderful  Pantomime.  Even  at  Drury  Lane  thirty 
years  back  there  were  many  things  that  they  did  not 
know,  and  it  is  not  likely  that  a  touring  company  fitted 
into  so  inadequate  an  old  building  as  our  Assembly  Rooms 
would  have  provided  anything  very  fine.  But  Jeremy  will 
never  again  discover  so  complete  a  realisation  for  his  illu- 
sions. Whatever  failures  in  the  presentation  there  were, 
he  himself  made  good. 

As  a  finale  to  the  first  half  of  the  entertainment  there 
was  given  Dick's  dream  at  the  Cross-Roads.  He  lay  on 
the  hard  ground,  his  head  upon  his  bundle,  the  cat  as  large 
as  he  watching  sjTnpathetically  beside  him.  In  the  dis- 
tance were  the  lights  of  London,  and  then,  out  of  the  half 
dusk,  fairies  glittering  with  stars  and  silver  danced  up  and 
dovsTQ  the  dusky  road  whilst  all  the  London  bells  rang  out 
"Turn  again,  Whittington,  Lord  Mayor  of  London." 

Had  Jeremy  been  of  the  age  and  wisdom  of  Uncle 
Samuel  he  would  have  discovered  that  Dick  was  a  stout 
lady  and  probably  the  mother  of  a  growing  family;  that 
the  fairies  knew  as  much  about  dancing  as  the  Glebeshire 
wives  sitting  on  the  bench  behind;  that  the  London  bells 
were  two  hand  instruments  worked  by  a  youth  in  shirt 
sleeves  behind  the  scenes  so  energetically  that  the  High 
Road  and  the  painted  London  blew  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  sympathy  with  his  movements.  Jeremy,  happily, 
was  not  so  worldly  wise  as  his  uncle.  This  scene  created 
for  him  then  a  tradition  of  imperishable  beauty  that  would 
never  fade  again.    The  world  after  that  night  would  be  a 


82  JEREMY 

more  magical  place  than  it  had  ever  been  before.  "Turn 
again,  "Whittington"  continued  the  education  that  the  Toy 
Village  and  Hamlet  had  already  advanced. 

When  the  gas  rose  once  again,  sizzling  like  crackling 
bacon,  he  was  white  with  excitement.  The  only  remark 
that  he  made  was :  "It's  much  better  than  the  pictures  out- 
side Martin's,  isn't  it,  Uncle  Samuel?"  to  which  Uncle 
Samuel,  who  had  been  railing  for  weeks  at  the  deflower- 
ing of  Polchester  by  those  abominable  posters,  could 
truthfully  reply,  "Much  better."  Little  by  little  he  vdth- 
drew  himself  from  the  other  world  and  realised  his  own. 
He  could  see  that  he  and  his  uncle  were  certainly  not 
amongst  the  Quality.  Large  ladies,  their  dresses  tucked 
up  over  their  knees,  sucked  oranges.  Country  farmers 
with  huge  knobbly  looking  sticks  were  there,  and  even  some 
sailors,  on  their  way  probably  to  Drymouth.  He  recog- 
nised the  lady  who  kept  charge  of  the  small  Orange 
Street  post-office,  and  waved  to  her  with  delighted  ex- 
citement. The  atmosphere  was  thick  with  gas  and  oranges, 
and  I'm  afraid  that  Uncle  Samuel  must  have  suffered  a 
gi-eat  deal.  I  can  only  put  it  on  record  that  he,  the  most 
selfish  of  human  beings,  never  breathed  a  word  of  com- 
plaint. 

They  were  all  packed  very  closely  together  up  there  in 
the  gallery,  where  seventy  years  before  an  orchestra 
straight  from  Jane  Austen's  novels  had  played  to  the 
dancing  of  the  contemporaries  of  Elizabeth  Bennett,  Emma 
"Woodhouse,  and  the  dear  lady  of  "Persuasion."  Another 
thirty-two  years  and  that  same  gallery  would  be  listening 
to  recruiting  appeals  and  echoing  the  drums  and  fifes  of  a 
martial  band.    The  best  times  are  always  the  old  times. 

The  huge   lady   in   the   seat   next  to   Jeremy    almost 


CHRISTMAS  PAl^TTOMIME  83. 

swallowed  him  up,  so  that  he  peered  out  from  under  her 
thick  ai-rn,  and  heard  every  crunch  and  crackle  of  the 
peppermints  that  she  was  enjoying.  He  grew  hotter  and 
hotter,  so  that  at  last  he  seemed,  as  once  he  had  read  in 
some  wai-ning  tract  about  a  greedy  boy  that  Aunt  Amy 
had  given  him,  "to  swim  in  his  own  fat."  But  he  did  not 
mind.  Discomfort  only  emphasised  his  happiness.  Then, 
peering  forward  beneath  that  stout  black  arm,  he  sud- 
denly perceived,  far  below  in  the  swimming  distance, 
the  back  of  his  mother,  the  tops  of  the  heads  of  Mary  and 
Helen,  the  stiff  white  collar  of  his  father,  and  the  well- 
known  coral  necklace  of  Aunt  Amy.  For  a  moment  dis- 
may seized- him,  the  morning's  lie  which  he  had  entirely 
forgotten  suddenly  jumping  up  and  facing  him.  But  they 
had  forgiven  him. 

"Shall  I  wave  to  them  ?"  he  asked  excitedly  of  Uncle 
Samuel. 

"1^0,  no,"  said  his  uncle  very  hurriedly.  "jSTonsense. 
They  wouldn't  see  you  if  you  did.     Leave  them  alone." 

He  felt  immensely  superior  to  them  up  where  he  was, 
and  he  wouldn't  have  changed  places  with  them  for  any- 
thing. He  gave  a  little  sigh  of  satisfaction.  "I  could 
drop  an  orange  on  to  Aunt  Amy's  head,"  he  said. 
"Wouldn't  she  jump!" 

•  "You  must  keep  quiet,"  said  Uncle  Samuel.     "You're 
good  enough  as  you  are." 

"I'd  rather  be  here,"  said  Jeremy.  "It's  beautifully 
hot  here  and  there's  a  lovely  smell." 

"There  is,"  said  Uncle  Samuel. 

Then  the  gas  went  down,  and  the  curtain  went  up,  and 
Dick,  now  in  a  suit  of  red  silk  with  golden  buttons,  con- 
tinued his  adventures.     I  have  not  space  here  to  describe 


84  JEEEMY 

in  detail  the  further  events  of  his  life — ^how,  receiving  a 
telegi'am  from  the  King  of  the  Zanzibars  about  the  plague 
of  rats,  he  took  ship  with  his  cat  and  Alderman  Fitzwarren 
and  his  wife,  how  they  were  all  swallowed  by  a  whale, 
cast  up  by  a  most  lucky  chance  on  the  Zanzibars,  nearly 
cooked  by  the  natives,  and  rescued  by  the  King  of  the 
Zanzibars'  beautiful  daughter,  killed  all  the  rats,  were 
given  a  huge  feast,  with  dance  and  song,  and  finally  Dick, 
although  tempted  by  the  dusky  Princess,  refused  a  large 
fortune  and  returned  to  Alice  of  Eastcheap,  the  true  lady 
of  his  heart.  There  were,  of  course,  many  other  things, 
such  as  the  aspirations  and  misadventures  of  Mrs.  Eitz- 
warren,  the  deep-voiced  lady  who  had  already  so  greatly 
amused  Jeremy.  And  then  there  was  a  Transformation 
Scene,  in  which  roses  turned  into  tulips  and  tulips  into  the 
Hall  of  Gold,  down  whose  blazing  steps  marched  stout 
representatives  of  all  the  nations. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  this  last  thrilling  spectacle, 
when  Jeremy's  heart  was  in  his  mouth  and  he  was  so  deeply 
excited  that  he  did  not  know  whether  it  were  he  or  the 
lady  next  to  him  who  was  eating  peppermints,  that  his 
uncle  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve  and  said  in  his  ear: 
"Come  on.     It's  close  on  the  end.     We  must  go." 

Jeremy  very  reluctantly  got  up,  and  stumbled  out  over 
knees  and  legs  and  exclamations  like: 

"There's  J^apan !"  "^o,  it  ain't ;  it's  Chiney !"  "Yon'a 
a  fine,  hearty  young  woman !"  and  so  on.  He  was  dragged 
through  the  black  cui'tain,  down  the  stone  steps,  and  into 
the  street. 

"But  it  wasn't  the  end,"  he  said. 

"It  will  be  in  one  minute,"  said  his  uncle.  "And  1 
want  us  to  get  home  first." 


CHRISTMAS  PAlsTTOMIME  85 

"Why?"  said  Jeremy. 

"Kever  you  mind.     Como  on;  we'll  race  it." 

They  arrived  home  breathless,  and  then,  once  again  in 
the  old  familiar  hall.  Uncle  Samuel  said : 

"Now  you  nip  up  to  the  nursery,  and  then  they'll  never 
know  you've  been  out  at  all." 

"!N^ever  know  ?"  said  Jeremy.  "But  you  said  they'd 
sent  for  me." 

"Well,"  said  Uncle  Samuel,  "that  wasn't  exactly  true. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  don't  know  you  were  there." 

"Oh!"  said  Jeremy,  the  comer  of  his  mouth  turning 
down.    "Then  I've  told  a  lie  again !" 

"Nonsense !"  said  Uncle  Samuel  impatiently.  "It 
wasn't  you ;  it  was  I." 

"And  doesn't  it  matter  your  telling  lies  ?"  asked  Jeremy. 

The  answer  to  this  difficult  question  was,  happily  for 
Uncle  Samuel,  intermpted  by  the  arrival  of  the  household, 
who  had  careened  up  Orange  Street  in  a  cab. 

When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cole  saw  Jeremy  standing  in  the 
hall,  his  gTeat  coat  still  on  and  his  muffler  round  his  neck, 
there  was  a  fine  scene  of  wonder  and  amazement. 

Uncle  Samuel  explained.  "It  was  my  fault.  I  told 
him  you'd  forgiven  him  and  sent  for  him  to  come,  after 
all.  He's  in  an  awful  state  now  that  you  shouldn't  forgive 
him." 

Whatever  they  thought  of  Uncle  Samuel,  this  was  ob- 
viously neither  the  time  nor  the  place  to  speak  out.  Mrs. 
Cole  looked  at  her  son.  His  body  defiant,  sleepy,  excited. 
His  mouth  was  obstinate,  but  his  eyes  appealed  to  her  on 
the  scene  of  the  common  marvellous  experience  that  they 
had  just  enjoyed. 

She  hugged  him. 


86  JEREMY 

"And  you  won't  tell  a  lie  again,  will  you,  Jeremy, 
dear?" 

"Oh,  no !"  And  tlien,  hurrying  on:  "And  when  the  old 
woman  tujnbled  down  the  steps,  Mother,  wasn't  it  lovely  ? 
And  the  fairies  in  Dick  Whittington's  sleep,  and  when 
the  furniture  all  fell  all  over  the  place " 

He  went  slowly  upstairs  to  the  nursery,  the  happiest 
toy  in  the  kingdom.  But  through  all  his  happiness  there 
was  this  puzzle:  Uncle  Samuel  had  told  a  lie,  and  no  one 
had  thought  that  it  mattered.  There  were  good  lies  and 
bad  ones  then.  Or  was  it  that  grown-up  people  could  tell 
lies  and  children  mustn't  ?  .  .  . 

He  tumbled  into  the  warm,  lighted  nursery  half  asleep. 
There  was  Hamlet  watching  in  front  of  the  Jampot's 
sewing  machine. 

He  would  have  things  to  think  about  for  years  and 
years  and  years.  .  .  . 

There  was  the  Jampot. 

"I'm  sorry  I  called  you  a  beastly  woman,"  he  said. 

She  sniffed. 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  be  a  good  boy  now,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I'll  be  good,"  he  smiled.  "But,  Xurse,  are  there 
some  people  can  tell  lies  and  others  mustn't  ?" 

"All  them  that  tell  lies  goes  to  Hell,"  said  the  Jampot. 
"And  now,  Master  Jeremy,  come  along  and  take  your 
things  off.  It's  past  eleven,  and  what  you'll  be  like 
to-morrow " 


CHAPTER   IV 

mss  JONES 


THE  coming  of  tlie  new  year  meant  the  going  of  tbo 
Jampot,  and  the  going  of  the  Jampot  meant  the 
breaking  of  a  life-time's  traditions.  The  departure  was 
depressing  and  unsettling ;  the  weather  was — as  it  always 
is  during  January  in  Glebeshire — at  its  worst,  and  the 
Jampot,  feeling  it  all  very  deeply,  maintained  a  terrible 
Spartan  composure,  which  was  meant  to  show  indifference 
and  a  sense  of  injustice.  She  had  to  the  very  last  believed 
it  incredible  that  she  should  really  go.  She  had  been  in 
the  old  Orange  Street  house  for  eight  years,  and  had  in- 
tended to  be  there  until  she  died.  She  was  forced  to  admit 
that  Master  Jeremy  was  going  beyond  her ;  but  in  Septem- 
ber he  would  go  to  school,  and  then  she  could  help  with 
the  sewing  and  other  things  about  the  house.  The  real 
truth  of  the  matter  was  that  she  had  never  been  a  very 
good  servant,  having  too  much  of  the  Glebeshire  pride  and 
independence  and  too  little  of  the  Glebeshire  fidelity. 

Mrs.  Cole  had  been  glad  of  the  opportunity  that  Ham- 
let's arrival  in  the  family  had  given  her.  The  Jampot, 
only  a  week  before  the  date  of  her  departure,  came  to  her 
mistress  and  begged,  with  floods  of  tears,  to  be  allowed  to 
continue  in  her  service.  But  Mrs.  Cole,  with  all  her 
placidity,  was  firm.     The  Jampot  had  to  go. 

87 


88  JEEEMY 

I  would  like  to  paint  a  pleasant  picture  of  the  sentiment 
of  the  Cole  children  on  this  touching  occasion ;  something, 
perhaps,  in  the  vein  of  tragi-comedy  with  which  Mr.  Ken- 
neth Graham  embroiders  a  similar  occasion  in  his  famous 
masterpiece — but  in  this  case  there  was  very  little  senti- 
ment and  no  tragedy  at  all.  They  did  not  think  of  the 
event  beforehand,  and  then  when  it  suddenly  occurred 
there  was  all  the  excitement  of  being  looked  after  by  Rose, 
the  housemaid,  of  having  a  longer  time  with  their  mother 
in  the  evening,  and,  best  of  all,  a  delightful  walk  with 
Aunt  Amy,  whose  virginal  peace  of  mind  they  attacked 
from  every  possible  quarter. 

The  Jampot  left  in  a  high  state  of  sulks,  declaring  to 
the  kitchen  that  no  woman  had  ever  been  so  unfairly 
treated;  that  her  married  sister  Sarah  Francis,  of  Eafiel, 
with  whom  she  was  now  to  live,  should  be  told  all  about 
it,  and  that  the  citizens  of  Rafiel  should  be  compelled  to 
sympathise.  The  children  were  not  unfeeling,  but  they 
hated  the  Jampot's  sulks,  and  while  she  waited  in  the 
nursery,  longing  for  a  word  or  movement  of  affection,  but 
wealing  a  face  of  stony  disapproval,  they  stood  awkwardly 
beholding  her,  and  aching  for  her  to  go.  She  was  the 
more  unapproachable  in  that  she  wore  her  Sunday  silks 
and  a  heavy  black  bonnet  with  shiny  rattling  globes  of 
some  dark  metal  that  nodded  and  becked  and  bowed  like 
live  things.  Hamlet,  who  had,  of  course,  always  hated  the 
Jampot,  barked  at  this  bonnet  furiously,  and  would  have 
bitten  at  it  had  it  been  within  his  reach.  She  had  meant 
to  leave  them  all  with  little  sentences  about  life  and  morals ; 
but  the  noise  of  the  dog,  the  indifference  of  the  children, 
and  the  general  air  of  impatience  for  her  departure 
strangled  her  aphorisms.     Poor  Jampot !     She  was  de- 


MISS  JOI^ES  89 

parting  to  a  married  sister  who  did  not  want  her,  and 
would  often  tell  her  so;  her  prospects  in  life  were  not 
bright,  and  it  is  sad  to  think  that  no  inhabitant  of  the 
Orange  Street  house  felt  any  sorrow  at  the  sight  of  the 
last  gesticulating  wave  of  her  black  bonnet  as  she  stepped 
into  the  old  mouldy  Polchester  cab. 

''The  King  is  dead — long  live.the  King!"  The  Jampot 
as  a  power  in  the  Cole  family  has  ceased  to  be. 

The  day  following  the  Jampot's  departure  offered  up 
the  news  that,  for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the  Coles, 
there  w.is  to  be  a  governess.  The  word  "governess" 
had  an  a.vful  sound,  and  the  children  trembled  with  a 
mixture  of  delight  and  terror.  Jeremy  pretended  indif- 
ference. 

''It's  only  another  woman,"  he  said.  "She'll  be  like 
the  Jampot — only,  a  lady,  so  she  won't  be  able  to  punish 
us  as  the  Jampot  could." 

I  expect  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cole  had  great  difficulty 
in  finding  anyone  who  would  do.  Thirty  years  ago  gov- 
ernesses were  an  incapable  race,  and  belonged  too  closely 
either  to  the  Becky  Sharp  or  the  Amelia  type  to  be  very 
satisfactory.  It  was  then  that  the  Xew  Woman  was 
bursting  upon  the  scene,  but  she  was  not  to  be  found 
amongst  the  governesses.  'No  one  in  Polchester  had  learnt 
yet  to  cycle  in  rational  costume,  it  was  several  years 
before  the  publication  of  "The  Heavenly  Twins,"  and 
Mr.  Trollope's  Lilys  and  Lucys  were  still  considered 
the  ideal  of  England's  maidenhood.  Mrs.  Cole,  therefore, 
had  to  choose  between  idiotic  young  women  and  crabbed 
old  maids,  and  she  finally  chose  an  old  maid.  I  don't 
think  that  Miss  Jones  was  the  veiy  best  choice  that  she 
could  have  made,  but  time  was  short.     Jeremy,  aided  by 


90  JEREMY 

Hamlet,  was  growing  terribly  independent,  and  Mr.  Cole 
had  neither  the  humour  nor  the  courage  to  deal  with  him. 
K^o,  Miss  Jones  was  not  ideal,  but  the  Dean  had  strongly; 
recommended  her.  It  is  true  that  the  Dean  had  never 
seen  her,  but  her  brother,  with  whom  she  had  lived  for 
many  years,  had  once  been  the  Dean's  curate.  It  was 
true  that  he  had  been  a  failure  as  a  curate,  but  that  made 
the  Dean  the  more  anxious  to  be  kind  now  to  his  memory, 
he — Mr.  Jones — having  just  died  of  general  bad-temper 
and  selfishness. 

Miss  Jones,  buried  during  the  last  twenty  years  in  the 
green  depths  of  a  Glebeshire  valley,  found  herself  now, 
at  the  age  of  fifty,  without  friends,  without  money,  without 
relations.     She  thought  that  she  would  be  a  governess. 

The  Dean  recommended  her,  Mrs.  Cole  approved  of  her 
birth,  education  and  sobriety,  Mr.  Cole  liked  the  severity 
of  her  countenance  when  she  came  to  call,  and  she  was 
engaged. 

"Jeremy  needs  a  tight  hand,"  said  Mr.  Cole.  "It's  no 
use  having  a  young  girl." 

"Miss  Jones  easily  escapes  that  charge,"  said  Uncle 
Samuel,  who  had  met  her  in  the  hall. 

The  children  were  prepared  to  be  good.  Jeremy  felt 
that  it  was  time  to  take  life  seriously.  He  put  away  his 
toy  village,  scolded  Hamlet  for  eating  Mary's  pincushion, 
and  dragged  out  his  dirty  exercise-book  in  which  he  did 
sums. 

"I  do  hate  sums!"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  regarding  the 
hideous  smudges  of  thumbs  and  tears  that  scored  the  page. 
"I  shall  never  understand  anything  about  them." 

"I'll  help  you,"  said  IMary,  who  was  greatly  excited  at 
the  thought  of  a  governess.     "We'll  do  them  together." 


MISS  JOKES  91 

"'No  we  won't,"  said  Jeremy,  who  hated  to  be  dependent. 
"I'll  learn  it  myself — if  only  the  paper  didn't  get  dirty 
so  quickly.'' 

"Mother  says,"  remarked  Helen,  "that  she's  had  a  very 
hard  life,  and  no  one's  ever  been  kind  to  her.  'She  wants 
affection,'  Mother  says." 

"I'll  give  her  my  napkin-ring  that  you  gave  me  last 
Christmas,  Mary,"  said  Jeremy.  "You  don't  mind,  do 
you?  It's  all  dirty  now.  I  hope  Hamlet  won't  bark  at 
her." 

Hamlet  was  worrying  Mary's  pincushion  at  the  moment, 
holding  it  between  his  paws,  his  body  stretched  out  in 
quivering  excitement,  his  short,  "snappy"  tail,  as  Uncle 
Samuel  called  it,  standing  up  straight  in  air.  He  stopped 
for  an  instant  when  he  heard  his  name,  and  shook  one  ear. 

"Mother  says,"  continued  Helen,  "that  she  lived  with  a 
brother  who  never  gave  her  enough  to  eat." 

Jeremy  opened  his  eyes.  This  seemed  to  him  a  horrible 
thing, 

"She  shall  have  my  porridge,  if  she  likes,"  he  said ;  "I 
don't  like  it  very  much.  And  I'll  give  her  that  chocolate 
that  Mr.  Jellybrand  sent  us.  There's  still  some,  although 
it's  rather  damp  now,  I  expect." 

"How  silly  you  are!"  said  Helen  scornfully.  "Of  course, 
Mother  will  give  her  anything  she  wants." 

"It  isn't  silly,"  said  Jeremy.  "Perhaps  she'll  want 
more  than  she  reallv  wants.     I  often  do." 

"Oh,  you!"  said  Helen. 

"And  if  for  ever  so  long,"  said  Jeremy,  "she  hasn't  had 
enough  to  eat,  she'll  want  twice  as  big  meals  now  as  other 
people — to  make  up." 


92  JEKEMY 

"Mother  sajs  we've  got  to  remember  sWs  a  ladj,"  said 
Helen. 

''What's  the  difference,"  asked  Jeremy,  "between  a  lady 
and  not  a  lady  ?" 

"Oh,  you  are !"  said  Helen.  "Why,  Aunt  Amy's  a  lady, 
and  Rose  isn't." 

"Rose  is  nicer,"  said  Jeremy. 

Miss  Jones  had,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  lied  to  Mrs.  Cole 
in  one  particular.  She  had  told  her  that  "she  had  had  to 
do  with  children  all  her  life,"  the  fact  being  that  on 
several  occasions  some  little  cousins  had  come  to  stay  with 
herself  and  her  brother.  On  these  occasions  the  little 
cousins  had  been  so  paralysed  with  terror  that  discipline 
had  not  been  difficult.  It  was  from  these  experiences  that 
Miss  Jones  flattered  herself  that  "she  understood  chil- 
dren." 

So  audacious  a  self-confidence  is  doomed  to  invito  the 
scornful  punishment  of  the  gods. 

Miss  Jones  arrived  upon  a  wet  January  afternoon,  one 
of  those  Glebeshire  days  when  the  town  sinks  into  a  bath 
of  mud  and  mist  and  all  the  pipes  run  water  and  the 
eaves  drip  and  horses  splash  and  only  ducks  are  happy. 
Out  of  a  blurred  lamp-lit  dusk  stumbled  Miss  Jones's  cab, 
and  out  of  a  blurred  unlit  cab  stumbled  Miss  Jones. 

As  she  stood  in  the  hall  trying  to  look  warm  and  amiable, 
Mrs.  Cole's  heart  forsook  her.  On  that  earlier  day  of  her 
visit  Miss  Jones  had  looked  possible,  sitting  up  in  Mrs. 
Cole's  drawing-room,  smiling  her  brightest,  because  she 
so  desperately  needed  the  situation,  and  wearing  her  best 
dress.  'Now  she  was  all  in  pieces;  she  had  had  to  leave 
her  little  village  early  in  the  morning  to  catch  the  village 
bus;  she  had  waited  at  wayside  stations,  as  in  Glebeshire 


MISS  JONES  93 

only  one  can  wait ;  the  world  had  dripped  upon  her  head 
and  spattered  upon  her  legs.  She  had  neuralgia  and  a 
pain  in  her  back;  she  had  worn  her  older  dress  because, 
upon  such  a  day,  it  would  not  do  to  travel  in  her  best ;  and 
then,  as  a  climax  to  everything,  she  had  left  her  umbrella 
in  the  train.  IIow  she  could  do  such  a  thing  upon  such  a 
day !  Iler  memory  was  not  her  strongest  point,  poor  lady, 
and  it  was  a  good  umbrella,  and  she  could  not  afford  to 
buy  another.  Perhaps  they  would  find  it  for  her,  but  it 
was  very  unlikely. 

She  had  had  it  for  a  number  of  years. 

She  was  a  little  woman,  all  skin  and  bone,  with  dried 
withered  cheeks,  a  large  brown  nose  and  protruding  ears. 
Her  face  had  formed  severe  lines  in  self-defence  against 
her  brother,  but  her  eyes  were  mild,  and  when  she  smiled 
her  mouth  was  rather  pleasantly  pathetic. 

"Oh,  she'll  never  do,"  thought  Mrs.  Cole,  as  she  looked 
at  her  dripping  in  the  hall. 

"I  can't  think  how  I  forgot  it,  said  the  poor  lady,  her 
mind  fixed  upon  her  imibrella.  "They  said  that  perhaps 
they  would  find  it  for  me,  but  there  was  a  man  in  my 
carriage,  I  remember,  who  will  most  certainly  have  taken 
it — and  it  was  a  nice  one  with  a  silver  handle." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Cole  cheerfully,  "I'm  sure 
they'll  find  it.  You  must  come  up  to  the  nursery — or  the 
schoolroom  I  suppose  we  must  call  it  now ;  there's  a  lovely 
fire  there,  and  we'll  both  have  tea  with  the  children  to-day, 
so  as  to  feel  at  home,  all  of  us,  as  quickly  as  possible." 

What  Miss  Jones  wanted  was  to  lie  down  on  a  bed  in 
a  dark  room  and  try  and  conquer  her  neuralgia.  The 
thought  of  a  lighted  nursery  filled  her  with  dismay.    How- 


94  JEKEMY 

ever,  first  impressions  are  so  important.  She  pulled  herself 
together. 

The  children  had  heard  the  arrival;  they  waited  in  a 
bunch  by  the  fire,  their  eyes  partly  fixed  on  the  door, 
partly  on  the  strawberry  jam  that  they  were  allowed  to-day 
as  a  treat  in  the  new  governess's  honour.  Hamlet,  his  eyes 
and  ears  also  upon  the  door,  expecting  perhaps  a  rat,  per- 
haps Aunt  Amy,  sat  in  front  of  the  group,  its  bodyguard. 

'"She's  in  the  hall,"  said  Helen,  "and  now  Mother's 
saying:  'Do  take  off  your  things.  You  must  be  wet,'  and 
now  she's  saying ;  'You'll  like  to  see  the  children,  I  expect/ 
and  now " 

There  they  were,  standing  in  the  doorway,  Mrs.  Cole 
and  Miss  Jones.  There  followed  a  dismal  pause.  The 
children  had  not  expected  anyone  so  old  and  so  ugly  as 
Miss  Jones.     Hamlet  did  not  bark — nothing  occurred. 

At  last  Mrs.  Cole  said :  "jSTow,  children,  come  and  sa:y, 
'How  do  you  do?'  to  Miss  Jones.  This  is  Helen,  our 
eldest — this  Mary — and  this  Jeremy." 

Miss  Jones  did  a  dreadful  thing.  In  her  eagerness  to 
be  pleasant  and  friendly  she  kissed  the  girls,  and  then, 
before  anyone  could  stop  her,  kissed  Jeremy.  He  took  it 
like  a  man,  never  turning  his  head  nor  wiping  his  mouth 
with  his  hand  afterwards,  but  she  might  have  seen  in  his 
eyes,  had  she  looked,  what  he  felt  about  it. 

She  said :  "I  hope  we  shall  be  happy  together,  dears." 

The  children  said  nothing,  and  presently  they  all  sat 
down  to  tea. 

n 

It  was  unfortunate  that  there  was  so  little  precedent 
on  both  sides.     Miss  Jones  had  never  been  a  governess 


MISS  JOKES  95 

before  and  the  children  had  never  had  one.  Of  course, 
many  mistakes  were  made.  Miss  Jones  had  had  a  true 
admiration  for  what  she  used  to  call  "her  brother's  in- 
domitable spirit,"  her  name  for  his  selfishness  and  bad 
temper.  She  was  herself  neither  selfish  nor  bad-tempered, 
but  she  was  ignorant,  nervous,  over-anxious,  and  desperate- 
ly afraid  of  losing  her  situation.  She  had  during  so  many 
years  lived  without  affection  that  the  wells  of  it  had  dried 
up  within  her,  and  now,  without  being  at  all  a  bad  old 
lady,  she  was  simply  preoccupied  with  the  business  of 
managing  her  neuralgia,  living  on  nothing  a  week,  and 
building  to  her  deceased  brother's  memory  a  monument 
of  heroic  character  and  self-sacrifice. 

She  was  short-sighted  and  had  a  perpetual  cold;  she 
was  forgetful  and  careless.  She  had,  nevertheless,  a  real 
knowledge  of  many  things,  a  warm  heart  somewhere  could 
she  be  encouraged  to  look  for  it  again,  and  a  sense  of 
humour  buried  deep  beneath  her  cares  and  preoccupations. 
There  were  many  worse  persons  in  the  world  than  Miss 
Jones.  But,  most  unfortunately,  her  love  for  her  brother's 
memory  led  her  to  resolve  on  what  she  called  "firmness." 

Mrs.  Cole  had  told  her  that  Jeremy  was  "getting  too 
much"  for  his  nurse ;  she  approached  Jeremy  with  exactly 
the  tremors  and  quaking  boldness  that  she  would  have 
summoned  to  her  aid  before  a  bull  loose  in  a  field.  She 
really  did  look  frightening  with  her  large  spectacles  on 
the  end  of  her  large  nose,  her  mouth  firmly  set,  and  a  ruler 
in  her  hand. 

"I  insist  on  absolute  obedience,"  was  her  motto.  Jeremy 
looked  at  her  but  said  no  word. 

It  was  made  clear  to  them  all  that  the  new  regime  was 
to  be  far  other  than  the  earlier  nursery  one.     There  were 


96  JEREMY 

to  be  regular  lesson  hours — nine  to  twelve  and  four  to 
five.  A  neat  piece  of  wliite  paper  was  fastened  to  the 
wall  with  "Monday :  Geography  9-10,  Arithmetic  10-11," 
and  so  on.  A  careful  gi'aduation  of  punishments  was  insti- 
tuted, copies  to  be  written  so  many  times,  standing  on  a 
chair,  three  strokes  on  the  hand  with  a  ruler,  and,  worst 
of  all,  standing  in  the  corner  wearing  a  paper  Dunce's  • 
cap.     (This  last  she  had  read  of  in  books.) 

At  first  Jeremy  had  every  intention  of  behaving  well,  in 
spite  of  that  unfortunate  embrace.  He  was  proud  of  his 
advance  in  life;  he  was  no  longer  a  baby;  the  nursery  was 
now  a  schoolroom;  he  stayed  up  an  hour  later  at  night; 
he  was  to  be  allowed  twopence  a  week  pocket-money;  his 
whole  social  status  had  risen.  He  began  to  read  for  pleas- 
ure, and  discovered  that  it  was  easier  than  he  had  expected, 
so  that  he  passed  quite  quickly  through  "Lottie's  Visit  to 
Grandmama"  into  "Stumps"  and  out  again  in  "Jacka- 
napes." He  heard  some  elder  say  that  the  road  to  a  large 
fortune  lay  through  "Sums,"  and,  although  this  seemed  to 
him  an  extremely  mysterious  statement,  he  determined  to 
give  the  theory  a  chance.  In  fact,  he  sat  down  the  first 
day  at  the  schoolroom  table,  Mary  and  Helen  on  each  side 
of  him,  and  Miss  Jones  facing  them,  with  fine  resolves  and 
high  ambitions.  Before  him  lay  a  pure  white  page,  and 
at  the  head  of  this  the  noble  words  in  a  running  hand : 

"Slow  and  steady  wins  the  race." 

He  grasped  his  pencil,  and  Miss  Jones,  eager  to  lose 
no  time  in  asserting  her  authority,  cried:  "But  that's  not 
the  way  to  hold  your  pencil,  Jeremy,  your  thumb  so,  your 
finger  so." 

He  scowled  and  found  that  lifting  his  thumb  over  the 


MISS  JONES  97 

pencil  was  as  difficult  as  lifting  Hamlet  over  a  gate.  lie 
made  a  bold  attempt,  but  the  pencil  refused  to  move. 

"Can't  bold  it  that  way,"  be  said. 

"You  must  never  say  ^can't,'  Jeremy,"  remarked  Miss 
Jones.     "There  isn't  such  a  word." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mary  eagerly,  "there  is;  I've  seen  it 
in  books." 

"You  musn't  contradict,  Mary,"  said  Miss  Jones.  "I 
only  meant  that  you  must  behave  as  though  there  isn't, 
because  nothing  is  impossible  to  one  who  truly  tries." 

"My  pencil  waggles  this  way,"  said  Jeremy  politely. 
"I  think  I'll  hold  it  the  old  way,  please." 

"There's  only  one  way  of  doing  anything,"  said  Miss 
Jones,  "and  that's  the  right  way." 

"This  is  the  right  way  for  me,"  said  Jeremy. 

"If  I  say  it's  not  the  right  way " 

"'But  it  waggles,"  cried  Jeremy. 

The  discussion  was  interrupted  by  a  cry  from  Helen. 

"Oh,  do  look.  Miss  Jones,  Hamlet's  got  your  spectacle- 
case.     He  thinks  it's  a  mouse." 

There  followed  general  confusion.  Miss  Jones  jumped 
up,  and,  with  little  cries  of  distress,  pursued  Hamlet,  who 
hastened  into  his  favourite  comer  and  began  to  worry  the 
spectacle-case,  with  one  eye  on  Miss  Jones  and  one  on  his 
spoils. 

Jeremy  hurried  up  crying:  "Put  it  down,  Hamlet, 
naughty  dog,  naughty  dog,"  and  Mary  and  Helen  laughed 
with  frantic  delight. 

At  last  Miss  Jones,  her  face  red  and  her  hair  in  dis- 
order, rescued  her  property  and  returned  to  the  table, 
Hamlet  meanwhile  wagging  his  tail,  panting  and  watching 
for  a  further  game. 


98  '  JEKEMY 

"I  can't  possibly,"  said  Miss  Jones,  "allow  that  dog  in 
liere  during  lesson  hours.     It's  impossible." 

"Oh,  but  Miss  Jones "  began  Jeremy. 

"I^ot  one  word,"  said  she,  "let  us  have  no  more  of  this. 
Lead  him  from  the  room,  Jeremy !" 

"But,  Miss  Jones,  he  must  be  here.  He's  learning  too. 
In  a  day  or  two  he'll  be  as  good  as  anything,  really  he 
will.  He's  so  intelligent.  He  really  thought  it  was  his 
to  play  with,  and  he  did  give  it  up,  didn't  he,  as  soon  as 
I  said " 

"Enough,"  said  Miss  Jones,  "I  will  listen  to  no  more. 
I  say  he  is  not  to  remain " 

"But  if  I  promise "  said  Jeremy. 

Then  Miss  Jones  made  a  bad  mistake.  Wearied  of  the 
argTiment,  wishing  to  continue  the  lesson,  and  hoping  per- 
haps to  please  her  tormentors,  she  said  meekly : 

"Well,  if  he  really  is  good,  perhaps " 

From  that  instant  her  doom  was  sealed.  The  children 
exchanged  a  glance  of  realisation.  Jeremy  smiled.  The 
lesson  was  continued.  What  possessed  Jeremy  now  ?  What 
possesses  any  child,  naturally  perhaps,  of  a  kindly  and  even 
sentimental  nature  at  the  sight  of  something  helpless  and 
in  its  power  ?  Is  there  any  cruelty  in  after  life  like  the 
cruelty  of  a  small  boy,  and  is  there  anything  more  power- 
ful, more  unreasoning,  and  more  malicious  than  the  cal- 
culating tortures  that  small  children  devise  for  those 
weaker  than  themselves?  Jeremy  was  possessed  with  a 
new  power. 

It  was  something  almost  abstract  in  its  manifestations ; 
it  was  something  indecent,  sinister,  secret,  foreign  to  his 
whole  nature  felt  by  him  now  for  the  first  time,  unan- 
alysed,  of  course,  but  belonging,  had  he  known  it,  to  that 


MISS  JONES  90 

world  of  which  afterwards  he  was  often  to  catch  glimpses, 
that  world  of  shining  white  faces  in  dark  streets,  of  muffled 
cries  from  shuttered  windows,  of  muttered  exclamations, 
half  caught,  half  understood.  He  was  never  again  to  be 
quite  free  from  the  neighbourhood  of  that  half-world ;  he 
would  never  bo  quite  sure  of  his  dominance  of  it  until  he 
died. 

He  had  never  felt  anything  like  this  power  before.  With 
the  Jampot  his  relations  had  been  quite  simple;  he  had 
been  rebellious,  naughty,  disobedient,  and  had  been  pun- 
ished, and  there  was  an  end.  ISTow  there  was  a  game  like 
tracking  Red  Indians  in  the  prairie  or  tigers  in  the  jimgle. 

He  watched  Miss  Jones  and  discovered  many  things 
about  her.  He  discovered  that  when  she  made  mistakes 
in  the  things  that  she  taught  them  she  was  afraid  to  con- 
fess to  her  mistakes,  and  so  made  them  worse  and  worse. 
He  discovered  that  she  was  very  nervous,  and  that  a 
sudden  noise  made  her  jump  and  turn  white  and  put  her 
hand  to  her  heart.  He  discovered  that  she  would  punish 
him  and  then  try  to  please  him  by  saying  he  need  not 
finish  his  punishment.  He  discovered  that  she  would  lose 
things,  like  her  spectacles,  her  handkerchief,  or  her  purse, 
and  then  be  afraid  to  confess  that  she  had  lost  them  and 
endeavour  to  proceed  without  them.  He  discovered  that 
she  hated  to  hit  him  on  the  hand  with  a  ruler  (he  scarcely 
felt  the  strokes).  He  discovered  that  when  his  mother  or 
father  was  in  the  room  she  was  terrified  lest  he  should 
misbehave. 

He  discovered  that  she  was  despised  by  the  servants,  who 
quite  openly  insulted  her. 

All  these  things  fed  his  sense  of  power.  He  did  not 
consider  her  a  human  being  at  all ;  she  was  simply  some- 


100  JEREMY 

thing  upon  "wliicli  lie  could  exercise  his  ingenuity  and 
cleverness.  Mary  followed  him  in  whatever  he  did; 
Helen  pretended  to  be  superior,  but  was  not.  Yes,  Miss 
Jones  was" in  the  hands  of  her  tormentors,  and  there  was 
no  escape  for  her. 

Surely  it  must  have  been  some  outside  power  that  drove 
Jeremy  on.  The  children  called  it  "teasing  Miss  Jones," 
and  the  aboriginal  savagery  in  their  behaviour  was  as  un- 
conscious as  their  daily  speech  or  fashion  of  eating  their 
food — some  instinct  inherited,  perhaps,  from  the  days 
when  the  gentleman  with  the  biggest  muscles  extracted  for 
his  daily  amusement  the  teeth  and  nails  of  his  less  happily 
muscular  friends. 

There  were  many  games  to  be  played  with  Miss  Jones. 
She  always  began  her  morning  with  a  fine  show  of  author- 
ity, accumulated,  perhaps,  during  hours  of  Spartan  reso- 
lution whilst  the  rest  of  the  household  slept.  "To-morrow 
I'll  see  that  they  do  what  I  tell  them " 

"i^ow,  children,"  she  would  say,  "I'm  determined  to 
stand  no  nonsense  this  morning.  Get  out  your  copy  books." 
Five  minutes  later  would  begin :  "Oh,  Miss  Jones,  I  can't 
write  with  this  pencil.  May  I  find  a  better  one  ?"  Granted 
permission,  Mary's  head  and  large  spectacles  would  dis- 
appear inside  the  schoolroom  cupboard.  Soon  Jeremy 
would  say  very  politely:  "Miss  Jones,  I  think  I  know 
where  it  is.  May  I  help  her  to  find  it  ?"  Then  Jeremy's 
head  would  disappear.  There  would  follow  giggles,  whis- 
pers, again  giggles;  then  from  the  cupboard  a  book  tum- 
bles, then  another,  then  another. 

Then  Miss  Jones  would  say :  "Kow,  Jeremy,  come  back 
to  the  table.  You've  had  quite  enough  time "  inter- 
rupted by  a  perfect  avalanche  of  books.     Mary  crying: 


MISS  JONES  101 

"Oh,  Jeremy!"  Jeremy  crying:  "I  didn't;  it  was  you!" 
Miss  Jones :    "Now,  children " 

Then  Jeremy,  very  politely : 

"Please,  Miss  Jones,  may  I  help  Mary  to  pick  the  books 
np  ?  There  are  rather  a  lot."  Then,  both  on  their  knees, 
more  whispers  and  giggles.  Miss  Jones,  her  voice  trem- 
bling: "Children,  I  really  insist "     And  more  books 

dropped,  and  more  whispers  and  more  protests,  and  so  on 
ad  infinitum.  A  beautiful  game  to  be  played  all  the  morn- 
ing. 

Or  there  was  the  game  of  Not  Hearing,  Miss  Jones 
would  say :  "And  twice  two  are  four."  Mary  would  repeat 
loudly :  "And  twice  two  is  five " 

"Four,  Mary." 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  said  five." 

And  then  a  second  later  Jeremy  would  ask : 

"Did  you  say  four  or  five.  Miss  Jones  ?" 

"I  told  Mary  I  said  four " 

"Oh,  I've  written  five — and  now  it's  all  wrong.  Didn't 
you  write  five,  Mary  ?" 

"Yes,  I've  written  five.  You  did  say  four,  didn't  you, 
Miss  Jones  ?" 

"Yes — yes.    And  three  makes " 

"What  did  you  say  made  five?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"I  didn't  say  five.    I  said  four.    Twice  two." 

"Is  that  as  well  as  'add  three,'  Miss  Jones?  I've  got 
twice  two,  and  then  add  three,  and  then  twice  two " 

"No,  no.    I  was  only  telling  Jeremy " 

"Please,    Miss    Jones,    would    you    mind    beginning 


again— 

This  is  a  very  unpleasant  game  for  a  lady  with  neu- 
ralgia. 


102  JEKEMY 

Or  there  is  the  game  of  Making  a  I^oise.  At  this  game, 
without  any  earlier  training  or  practice,  Jeremy  was  a 
perfect  master.  The  three  children  would  be  sitting  there 
very,  very  quiet,  learning  the  first  verse  of  ''Tiger,  Tiger, 

burning  bright "    A  very  gentle  creaking  sound  would 

break  the  stillness — a  creaking  sound  that  can  be  made,  if 
jou  are  clever,  by  rubbing  a  boot  against  a  boot.  It  would 
not  come  regularly,  but  once,  twice,  thrice,  a  pause,  and 
then  once,  twice  and  another  pause. 

"Who's  making  a  noise?" 

Dead  silence.  A  very  long  pause,  and  then  it  would  be- 
gin again. 

"That  noise  must  cease,  I  say.  Jeremy,  what  are  you 
doing?" 

He  would  lift  to  her  then  eyes  full  of  meekness  and  love. 

"Nothing,  Miss  Jones." 

Soon  it  would  begin  again.  Miss  Jones  would  be  silent 
this  time,  and  then  Mary  would  speak. 

"Please,  would  you  ask  Jeremy  not  to  rub  his  boots 
together  ?    I  can't  learn  my  verse " 

"I  didn't  know  I  was,"  says  Jeremy. 

Then  it  would  begin  again.    Jeremy  would  say : 

"Please,  may  I  take  my  boots  off  ?" 

"Take  your  boots  off  ?    Why  ?" 

"They  will  rub  together,  and  I  can't  stop  them,  because 
I  don't  know  when  I  do  it,  and  it  is  hard  for  Mary " 

"Of  course  not !  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing !  Kext 
time  you  do  it  you  must  stand  on  your  chair." 

Soon  Jeremy  is  standing  on  his  chair.  Soon  his  poetry 
book  drops  with  a  terrible  crash  to  the  ground,  and  five 
million  pins  stab  Miss  Jones's  heart.  With  white  face  and 
trembling  hands,  she  says : 


MISS  JONES  103 

"Go  and  stand  in  the  comer,  Jeremy !  I  shall  have  to 
speak  to  your  mother!" 

He  goes,  grinning  at  Mary,  and  stands  there  knowing 
that  his  victim  is  watching  the  door  in  an  agony  lest  Mrs. 
Cole  should  suddenly  come  in  and  inquire  what  Jeremy 
had  done,  and  that  so  the  whole  story  of  his  insubordina- 
tion be  revealed  and  Miss  Jones  lose  her  situation  for  in- 
capacity. 

How  did  he  discover  this  final  weakness  of  Miss  Jones  ? 
'No  one  told  him ;  but  he  knew,  and,  as  the  days  passed,  re- 
joiced in  his  power  and  his  might  and  his  glory. 

Then  came  the  climax.  The  children  were  not  perfectly 
sure  whether,  after  all.  Miss  Jones  might  not  tell  their 
mother.  They  did  not  wish  this  to  happen,  and  so  long  as 
this  calamity  was  possible  they  were  not  complete  masters 
of  the  poor  lady.  Then  came  a  morning  when  they  had 
been  extremely  naughty,  when  every  game  had  been  played 
and  every  triumph  scored.  Miss  Jones,  almost  in  tears, 
had  threatened  four  times  that  the  Powers  Above  should 
be  informed.    Suddenly  Mrs.  Cole  entered. 

"Well,  Miss  Jones,  how  have  the  children  been  this 
morning?  If  they've  been  good  I  have  a  little  treat  to 
propose." 

The  children  waited,  their  eyes  upon  their  governess. 
Her  eyes  stared  back  upon  her  tonnentors.  Her  hands 
worked  together.  She  struggled.  "Why  not  call  in  Mrs. 
Cole's  authority  to  her  aid  ?  No ;  she  knew  what  it  would 
mean — "I'm  very  sorry,  Miss  Jones,  but  I  think  a  younger 
jovemess,  perhaps " 

Her  throat  moved. 

"They've  been  very  good  this  morning,  Mrs.  Cole." 


104  JEEEMY 

The  eyes  of  Mary  and  of  Jeremy  were  alight  with 
triumph. 

They  had  won  their  final  victory. 


Ill 

I  know  what  Miss  Jones  suffered  during  those  weeks. 
She  was  not  an  old  lady  of  very  great  power  of  resistance, 
and  it  must  have  positively  terrified  her  that  these  small 
children  should  so  vindictively  hate  her.  She  could  not 
have  seen  it  as  anything  but  hatred,  being  entirely  ignorant 
of  children  and  the  strange  forces  to  whose  power  they  are 
subject,  and  she  must  have  shivered  in  her  bedroom  at 
the  dreariness  and  terror  of  the  prospect  before  her.  Many, 
many  times  she  must  have  resolved  not  to  be  beaten,  and 
many,  many  times  she  must  have  admitted  herself  beaten 
as  badly  as  any  one  can  be. 

Her  life  with  the  people  downstairs  was  not  intimate 
enough,  nor  were  those  people  themselves  perceptive  enough 
for  any  realisation  of  what  was  occurring  to  penetrate. 

"I  hope  you're  happy  with  the  children,  Miss  Jones," 
once  or  twice  said  Mrs.  Cole. 

"Very,  thank  you,"  said  Miss  Jones. 

"They're  good  children,  I  think,  although  parents  are 
always  prejudiced,  of  course.  Jeremy  is  a  little  difiicult 
perhaps.  It's  so  hard  to  tell  what  he's  really  thinking. 
You  find  him  a  quiet,  resented  little  boy?" 

"Very,"  said  Miss  Jones. 

"In  a  little  while,  when  you  know  him  better,  he  will 
come  out.  Only  you  have  to  let  him  take  his  time.  He 
doesn't  like  to  be  forced " 

"jSTo,"  said  Miss  Jones. 


MISS  JONES  105 

Meanwhile,  that  morning  descent  into  the  schoolroom 
was  real  hell  for  her.  She  had  to  summon  up  her  courage, 
walking  about  her  bedroom,  pressing  her  hands  together, 
evoking  the  memory  of  her  magnificent  iron-souled  brother, 
who  would,  she  knew,  despise  such  tremors.  If  only  she 
could  have  discovered  some  remedy!  But  sentiment,  at- 
tempted tyranny,  anger,  contempt,  at  all  these  things  they 
laughed.  She  could  not  touch  them  anywhere.  And  she 
saw  Jeremy  as  a  real  child  of  Evil  in  the  very  baldest 
sense.  She  could  not  imagine  how  anyone  so  young  could 
be  so  cruel,  so  heartless,  so  maliciously  clever  in  his  elab- 
orate machinations.  She  regarded  him  with  real  horror, 
and  on  the  occasions  when  she  found  him  acting  kindly 
towards  his  sisters  or  a  servant,  or  when  she  watched  him 
discoursing  solemnly  to  Hamlet,  she  was  helplessly  puzzled, 
and  decided  that  these  better  manifestations  were  simply 
masks  to  hide  his  devilish  young  heart.  She  perceived 
meanwhile  the  inevitable  crisis  slowly  approaching,  when 
she  would  be  compelled  to  invite  Mrs.  Cole's  support.  That 
would  mean  her  dismissal  and  a  hopeless  future.  There 
was  no  one  to  whom  she  might  turn.  She  had  not  a  rela- 
tion, not  a  friend — too  late  to  make  friends  now. 

She  could  see  nothing  in  front  of  her  at  all. 

The  crisis  did  come,  but  not  as  she  expected  it. 

There  arrived  a  morning  when  the  dark  mist  outside 
and  badly  made  porridge  inside  tempted  the  children  to 
their  very  worst.  Miss  Jones  had  had  a  wakeful  night 
struggling  with  neuralgia  and  her  own  hesitating  spirit. 
The  children  had  lost  even  their  customary  half-humour- 
ous,  half-contemptuous  reserve.  They  let  themselves  ap- 
pear for  what  they  were — infant  savages  discontented  with 
food,  weather  and  education. 


106  JEREMY 

I  will  not  detail  the  incidents  of  that  morning.  The 
episodes  that  were  on  other  mornings  games  were  to-day 
tortures.  There  was  the  Torture  of  Losing  Things,  the 
Torture  of  Isot  Hearing,  the  Torture  of  Many  ISToises,  the 
Torture  of  Sudden  Alarm,  the  Torture  of  Outright  Defi- 
ance, the  Torture  of  Expressed  Contempt.  When  twelve 
struck  and  the  children  were  free.  Miss  Jones  was 
not  far  from  a  nervous  panic  that  can  be  called,  without 
any  exaggeration,  incipient  madness.  The  neuralgia  tore 
at  her  brain,  her  own  self-contempt  tore  at  her  heart,  her 
baffled  impotence  bewildered  and  blinded  her.  She  did 
not  leave  the  schoolroom  with  the  children,  but  went  to  the 
broad  window-sill  and  sat  there  looking  out  into  the  dreary 
prospect.  Then,  suddenly  for  no  reason  except  general 
weakness  and  physical  and  spiritual  collapse  she  began  to 
cry. 

Jeremy  was  considered  to  have  a  cold,  and  was,  there- 
fore, not  permitted  to  accompany  his  mother  and  sisters 
on  an  exciting  shopping  expedition,  which  would  certainly 
lead  as  far  as  old  Poole's,  the  bookseller,  and  might  even 
extend  to  Martins',  the  pastrycook,  who  made  lemon  bis- 
cuits next  door  to  the  Cathedral.  He  was,  therefore,  in  a 
very  bad  temper  indeed  when  he  returned  sulkily  to  the 
schoolroom.  He  stood  for  a  moment  there  unaware  that 
there  was  anybody  in  the  room,  hesitating  as  to  whether 
he  should  continue  "A  Flat  Iron  for  a  Farthing"  or  hunt 
up  Hamlet.  Suddenly  he  heard  the  sound  of  sobbing.  He 
turned  and  saw  Miss  Jones. 

He  would  have  fled  had  flight  been  in  any  way  possible, 
but  she  had  looked  up  and  seen  him,  and  her  sudden  ar- 
rested sniff  held  them  both  there  as  though  bv  some  third 
invisible  power.     He  saw  that  she  was  crying;  he  saw  her 


MISS  JOKES  107- 

red  nose,  mottled  cheeks,  untidy  hair.  It  was  the  most 
awful  moment  of  his  young  life.  He  had  never  seen  a 
grown-up  person  cry  before;  he  had  no  idea  that  they 
ever  did  cry.  He  had,  indeed,  never  realised  that 
grown-up  persons  had  any  active  histories  at  all,  any  his- 
tories in  the  sense  in  which  he  and  ]\Iary  had  them.  They 
were  all  a  background,  simply  a  backgi'ound  that  blew  back' 
wards  and  forwards  like  tapestry  according  to  one's  need  of 
them.  His  torture  of  Miss  Jones  had  been  founded  on 
no  sort  of  realisation  of  her  as  a  human  being;  she  had 
been  a  silly  old  woman,  of  course,  but  just  as  the  battered 
weather-beaten  Aunt  Sally  in  the  garden  was  a  silly  old 
woman. 

Her  crying  horrified,  terrified,  and  disgusted  him.  It 
was  all  so  dreary,  the  horrible  weather  outside,  the  begin- 
ning of  a  cold  in  his  head,  the  schoolroom  fire  almost  out, 
everyone's  bad  temper,  including  his  own,  and  this  sudden 
horrible  jumping-to-life  of  a  grown-up  human  being.  She, 
meanwhile,  was  too  deeply  involved  now  in  the  waters  of 
her  affliction  to  care  very  deeply  who  saw  her  or  what  any- 
one said  to  her.  She  did  feel  dimly  that  she  ought  not  to 
be  crying  in  front  of  a  small  boy  of  eight  years  old,  and 
that  it  would  be  better  to  hide  herself  in  her  bedroom,  but 
she  did  not  mind — she  could  not  mind — her  neuralgia  was 
too  bad. 

"It's  the  neuralgia  in  my  head,"  she  said  in  a  muffled 
confused  voice.  That  he  could  understand.  He  also  had 
pains  in  his  head.  He  drew  closer  to  her,  flinging  a  long- 
ing backward  look  at  the  door.  She  went  on  in  convulsed 
tones : 

''It's  the  pain — awake  all  night,  and  the  lessons.  I  can't 
make  them  attend ;  they  learn  nothing.    They're  not  afraid 


108  JEREMY 

of  me — they  hate  me.  I've  never  really  known  children 
before " 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say.  Had  it  been  Mary  or 
Helen  the  formula  would  have  been  simple.  He  moved 
his  legs  restlessly  one  against  the  other. 

Miss  Jones  went  on : 

"And  now,  of  course,  I  must  go.    It's  quite  impossible 

for  me  to  stay  when  I  manage  so  badly "    She  looked 

up  and  suddenly  realised  that  it  was  truly  Jeremy. 
''You're  only  a  little  boy,  but  you  know  very  well  that  I 
can't  manage  you.  And  then  where  am  I  to  go  to  ?  ITo 
one  will  take  me  after  I've  been  such  a  failure." 

The  colour  stole  into  his  cheeks.  He  was  immensely 
proud.  Xo  grown-up  person  had  ever  before  spoken  to  him 
as  though  he  was  himself  a  grown-up  person — always 
laughing  at  him  like  Uncle  Samuel,  or  talking  down  to  him 
like  Aunt  Amy,  or  despising  him  like  Mr.  Jellybrand.  But 
Miss  Jones  appealed  to  him  simply  as  one  grown-up  to 
another.  Unfortunately  he  did  not  in  the  least  know  what 
to  say.  The  only  thing  he  could  think  of  at  the  moment 
was :  "You  can  have  my  handkerchief,  if  you  like.  It's 
pretty  clean " 

vBut  she  went  on:  "If  my  brother  had  been  alive  he 
would  have  advised  me.  He  was  a  splendid  man.  He 
rowed  in  his  college  boat  when  he  was  at  Cambridge,  but 
that,  of  course,  was  forty  years  ago.  He  could  keep 
children  in  order.  I  thought  it  would  be  so  easy.  Perhaps 
if  my  health  had  been  better  it  wouldn't  have  been  so 
hard." 

"Do  your  pains  come  often  ?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"Yes.    They're  very  bad." 

"I  have  them,  too,"  said  Jeremy.     "It's  generally,  I 


MISS  JONES  109 

expect,  because  I  eat  too  much — at  least,  the  Jampot  used 
to  say  so.  They're  in  my  head  sometimes,  too.  And  then 
I'm  really  sick.    Do  you  feel  sick  ?" 

Miss  Jones  began  to  pull  herself  together.  She  wiped 
her  eyes  and  patted  her  hair. 

"It's  my  neuralgia,"  she  said  again.  "It's  from  my 
eyes  partly,  I  expect." 

"It's  better  to  be  sick,"  continued  Jeremy,  "if  you  can 
be " 

She  flung  him  then  a  desperate  look,  as  though  she  were 
really  an  animal  at  bay. 

"You  see,  I  can't  go  away,"  she  said.  "I've  nowhere  to 
go  to.  I've  no  friends,  nor  relations,  and  no  one  will  take 
me  for  their  children,  if  Mrs.  Cole  says  I  can't  keep 
order." 

"Then  I  suppose  you'd  go  to  the  workhouse,"  continued 
Jeremy,  pursuing  her  case  with  excited  interest.  "That's 
what  the  Jampot  always  used  to  say,  that  one  day  she'd 
end  in  the  workhouse;  and  that's  a  horrible  place,  she 
said,  where  there  was  nothing  but  porridge  to  eat,  and 
sometimes  they  took  all  your  clothes  off  and  scrubbed  your 
back  with  that  hard  yellow  soap  they  wash  Hamlet  with.'* 

His  eyes  grew  wide  with  the  horrible  picture. 

"Oh,  Miss  Jones,  you  mustn't  go  there !" 

"Would  you  mind,"  she  said,  "just  getting  me  some 
water  from  the  jug  over  there?     There's  a  glass  there." 

Still  proud  of  the  level  to  which  he  had  been  raised, 
but  puzzled  beyond  any  words  as  to  this  new  realisation 
of  Miss  Jones,  he  fetched  her  the  water,  then,  standing 
quite  close  to  her,  he  said : 

"You  must  stay  with  us,  always." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  they  exchanged  a  glance. 


110  JEEEMY 

With  that  glance  Miss  Jones  learnt  more  about  children 
than  she  had  ever  learnt  before — more,  indeed,  than  most 
people  learn  in  all  their  mortal  lives. 

'"'I  can't  stay,"  she  said,  and  she  even  smiled  a  little,  "if 
you're  always  naughty." 

''We  won't  be  naughty  any  more."  He  sighed.  "It 
was  great  fun,  of  course,  but  we  won't  do  it  any  more. 
We  never  knew  you  minded." 

"iSTever  knew  I  minded  ?" 

"At  least,  we  never  thought  about  you  at  all.  Helen 
did  sometimes.  She  said  you  had  a  headache  when  you 
were  very  yellow  in  the  morning,  but  I  said  it  was  only 
because  you  were  old.  Eut  we'll  be  good  now.  I'll  tell 
them  too " 

Then  he  added :  "But  you  won't  go  away  now  even  if 
we're  not  aliuays  good  ?  We  won't  always  be,  I  suppose ; 
and  I'm  going  to  school  in  September,  and  it  will  be  bet- 
ter then,  I  expect,  I'm  too  old,  really,  to  learn  with  girls 
now." 

She  wanted  terribly  to  kiss  him,  and,  had  she  done  so, 
the  whole  good  work  of  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  would 
have  been  undone.  He  was  aware  of  her  temptation ;  he 
felt  it  in  the  air.  She  saw  the  warning  in  his  eyes.  The 
moment  passed. 

"You  won't  go  away,  will  you  ?"  he  said  again. 

"Xot  if  you're  good,"  she  said. 


IV 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  Mary  and  Helen  returned 
from  their  walk,  they  were  addressed  by  Jeremy. 

"She  was  crying  because  we'd  been  so  naughty,  and  she 


MISS  JONES  111 

had  pains  in  her  head,  and  her  brother  was  dead.  Her 
brother  was  very  strong,  and  he  used  to  row  in  a  boat 
forty  years  ago.  She  told  me  all  about  it,  just  as  though 
I'd  been  Aunt  Amy  or  Mother.  And  she  says  that  if  we 
go  on  being  naughty  she'll  go  away,  and  no  one  else  will 
have  her,  because  they'll  hear  about  our  having  been 
naughty.  And  I  told  her  about  the  workhouse  and  the  por- 
ridge and  the  yellow  soap  that  the  Jampot  told  us  of,  and 
it  would  be  awful  if  she  went  there  because  of  us,  wouldn't 
it?" 

"Awful,"  said  Mary. 

But  Helen  said :  "She  wouldn't  go  there.  She'd  take  a 
little  house,  like  Miss  Dobell,  and  have  tea-parties  on 
Thursdays — somewhere  near  the  Cathedral." 

"No,  she  wouldn't!"  said  Jeremy  excitedly.  "How 
could  she  take  a  little  house  if  she  hadn't  any  money  ?  She 
told  me  she  hadn't,  and  no  friends,  nor  nobody,  and  she 
cried  like  anything "  He  paused  for  breath,  then  con- 
cluded :  "So  we've  got  to  be  good  now,  and  learn  sums,  and 
not  make  her  jump.    Eeally  and  truly,  we  must." 

"I  always  thought  you  were  very  silly  to  make  so  much 
noise,"  said  Helen  in  a  superior  fashion.  "You  and  Mary 
— babies !" 

"We're  not  babies,"  shouted  Jeremy. 

"Yes,  you  are." 

"No,  we're  not." 

Miss  Jones  was  no  longer  the  subject  of  the  conversa- 
tion. 

That  same  day  it  happened  that  rumours  were  brought 
to  Mrs.  Cole  through  Rose,  the  housemaid,  or  some  other 
medium  for  the  first  time,  of  Miss  Jones's  incapacity. 

That  evening  Jeremy  was  spending  his  last  half-hour 


112  JEREMY 

before  bedtime  in  bis  motber's  room  bappily  in  a  comer 
witb  bis  toy  village.  He  suddenly  beard  bis  motber  say  to 
Aunt  Amy: 

"I'm  afraid  Miss  Jones  won't  do.  I  tbougbt  sbe  was 
managing  tbe  cbildren,  but  now  I  bear  tbat  sbe  can't  keep 
order  at  all.    I'm  sorry — it's  so  difficult  to  get  anyone." 

Jeremy  sprang  up  from  tbe  floor,  startling  tbe  ladies, 
who  bad  forgotten  tbat  be  was  tbere. 

"Sbe's  all  rigbt,"  be  cried.  "Really  sbe  is,  Mother. 
"We're  going  to  be  as  good  as  anything,  really  we  are. 
You  won't  send  her  away,  will  you  ?" 

"My  dear  Jeremy,"  bis  motber  said,  "I'd  forgotten  you 
were  tbere.  Rose  says  you  don't  do  anything  Miss  Jones 
tells  you." 

"Rose  is  silly,"  be  answered.  "She  doesn't  know  any- 
thing about  it.  Rut  you  will  keep  her,  won't  you, 
Mother  ?" 

"I  don't  know — if  she  can't  manage  you " 

"But  she  can  manage  us.  We'll  be  good  as  anything. 
I  promise.     You  will  keep  her,  won't  you,  Mother?" 

"Really,  Jeremy,"  said  Aunt  Amy,  "to  bother  your 
mother  so !    And  it's  nearly  time  you  went  to  bed." 

He  brushed  her  aside.  "You  will  keep  her.  Mother, 
won't  you  ?" 

"It  depends,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Cole,  laughing.  "You 
see " 

"1^0 — ^we'll  be  bad  with  everyone  else,"  he  cried.  "We 
will,  really — everyone  else.  And  we'll  be  good  with  Miss 
Jones." 

"Well,  so  long  as  you're  good,  dear,"  she  said.  "I'd 
no  idea  you  liked  her  so  much." 

"Oh,  she's  all  right,"  he  said.    "But  it  isn't  tbat " 


MISS  JONES  113 

Then  he  stopped ;  he  couldn't  explain — especially  with 
that  idiot  Aunt  Amy  there,  who'd  only  laugh  at  him,  or 
kiss  him,  or  something  else  horrible. 

Afterwards,  as  he  went  slowly  up  to  bed,  he  stopped 
for  a  moment  in  the  dark  passage  thinking.  The  whole 
house  was  silent  about  him,  only  the  clocks  whispering. 

What  a  tiresome  bother  Aunt  Amy  was !  How  he  wished 
that  she  were  dead !  And  what  a  bore  it  would  be  being 
good  now  with  Miss  Jones.  At  the  same  time,  the  re- 
newed consciousness  of  her  personal  drama  most  strangely 
moved  him — her  brother  who  rowed,  her  neuralgia,  her 
lack  of  relations.  Perhaps  Aunt  Amy  also  had  an  excit- 
ing history  !     Perhaps  she  also  cried  ! 

The  world  seemed  to  be  suddenly  filled  with  pressing,, 
thronging  figures,  all  with  businesses  of  their  own. 

It  was  very  odd. 

He  pushed  back  the  schoolroom  door  and  blinked  at  the 
sudden  light. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIN 


VERY  few  matter-of-fact  citizens  of  the  present-day 
world  will  understand  the  part  that  the  sea  used  to 
play  in  our  young  lives  thirty  years  ago  in  Polchester. 

It  is  very  easy  to  look  at  the  map  and  say  that  the  sea 
is  a  considerable  distance  from  Polchester,  and  that  even 
if  you  stood  on  the  highest  ridge  of  the  highest  corn-field 
above  the  town  you  would  not  be  able  to  catch  the  faintest 
glimpse  of  it.  That  may  be  true,  although  I  myself  can 
never  be  completely  assured,  possessing  so  vividly  as  I  do 
a  memory  of  a  day  when  I  stood  with  my  nurse  at  the  edge 
of  Merazion  Woods  and,  gazing  out  to  the  horizon,  saw 
a  fleet  of  ships  full-sail  upon  the  bluest  of  seas,  and  would 
not  be  persuaded  that  it  was  merely  wrack  of  clouds.  That 
may  be  or  no;  the  fact  remains  that  Polchester  sniffed 
the  sea  from  afar,  was  caught  with  sea  breezes  and  bathed 
in  reflected  sea-lights;  again  and  again  of  an  evening  the 
Cathedral  sailed  on  dust  and  shadow  towards  the  horizon, 
a  great  white  ghost  of  a  galleon,  and  the  young  citizens  of 
the  town  with  wondering  eyes,  watched  it  go.  But  there 
were  more  positive  influences  than  mere  cloud  and  light. 
We  had,  in  the  lower  part  of  our  town,  sailors,  quite  a 
number  of  them.  There  were  the  old  white-bearded  ones 
who  would  sit  upon  tubs  and  tell  smuggling  tales;  these 

114 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIN  115 

haunted  the  River  Pol,  fished  in  it,  ferried  people  across 
it,  and  let  out  boats  for  hire.  There  were  younger  sailors 
who,  tired  of  the  still  life  of  their  little  villages  and  dread- 
ing the  real  hard  work  of  a  life  at  sea,  lurched  and 
slouched  by  the  Pol's  river  bed,  fishing  a  little,  sleeping, 
eating  and  drinking  a  great  deal. 

And  there  were  the  true  sailors,  passing  through  perhaps 
on  their  way  to  Dr^Tnouth  to  join  their  ships,  staying  in 
the  town  for  a  day  or  two  to  visit  their  relations,  or  simply 
stopping  for  an  hour  or  so  to  gaze  open-mouthed  at  the 
Cathedral  and  the  market-place  and  the  Canons  and  the  old 
women.  These  men  had  sometimes  gold  rings  in  their 
ears,  and  their  faces  were  often  coloured  a  dark  rich  brown, 
and  they  carried  bundles  across  their  backs  all  in  the  tradi- 
tional style. 

Then  there  were  influences  more  subtle  than  either 
clouds  or  men.  There  were  the  influences  of  the  places  that 
we  had  ourselves  seen  in  our  summer  holidays — Rafiel  and 
St.  Lowe,  Marion  Bay  or  Borhaze — and,  on  the  other 
coast,  ISTewbock  with  its  vast  stretch  of  yellow  sand,  St. 
Borse  with  its  wild  seas  and  giant  Borse  Head,  or  St. 
ITails-in-Cove  with  its  coloured  rocks  and  sparkling  shells. 
Every  child  had  his  own  place ;  my  place  was,  like 
Jeremy's,  Rafiel,  and  a  better,  more  beautiful  place,  in  the 
whole  world  you  will  not  find.  And  each  place  has  its  own 
legend:  at  Rafiel  the  Gold-laced  Pirates,  and  the  Tumip- 
Eield ;  at  Polwint  the  Giant  Excise  Man ;  at  Borhaze  the 
Smugglers  of  Trezent  Bock;  at  St.  Borse  the  wreck  of 
"The  Golden  Galleon"  in  the  year  1563,  with  its  wonderful 
treasure ;  and  at  St.  Maitsin  Cove  the  famous  Witch  of  St. 
Maitsin  Church  Town  who  turned  men's  bones  into  water 
and  filled  St.  Maitsin  Church  with  snakes.     Back  from 


116  JEEEMY 

one  summer  holiday,  treasuring  these  stories  together  with 
our  collections  of  shells  and  seaweed  and  dried  flowers,  we 
came,  and  so  the  tales  settled  in  Polchester  streets  and 
crept  into  the  heart  of  the  Polchester  cobbles  and  haunted 
the  Polchester  corners  by  the  fire,  and  even  invaded  with 
their  romantic,  peering,  mischievous  faces  the  solemn  aisles 
of  the  Cathedral  itself. 

The  sea  was  at  the  heart  of  all  of  them,  and  whenever 
a  sea-breeze  blew  down  the  street  carrying  with  it  wisps 
of  straw  from  the  field,  or  dandelion  seeds,  or  smell  of  sea- 
pinks,  we  children  lifted  our  noses  and  sniffed  and  sniffed 
and  saw  the  waves  curl  in  across  the  shore,  or  breakers 
burst  upon  the  rock,  and  whispered  to  one  another  of  the 
Smugglers  of  Trezent  or  the  Gold-laced  Pirates  of  Eafiel. 

But  I  think  that  none  of  us  adored  the  sea  as  Jeremy 
did.  From  that  first  moment  when,  as  a  small  baby,  he 
had  been  held  up  in  Rafiel  Cove  to  see  the  tops  of  the  waves 
catch  the  morning  light  as  they  rolled  over  to  shore,  he  had 
adored  it.  He  had  never  felt  any  fear  of  it ;  he  had  been 
able  to  swim  since  he  could  remember,  and  he  simply  lived 
for  those  days  at  the  end  of  July  when  they  would  all,  in  a 
frantic  hurry  and  confusion,  take  the  train  for  Rafiel  and 
arrive  at  Cow  Farm  in  the  evening,  with  the  roar  of  the 
sea  coming  across  the  quiet  fields  to  mingle  with  the  low- 
ing of  the  cows  and  the  bleating  of  the  sheep.  He  had  in 
his  bedroom  a  wonderful  collection  of  dusty  and  sticky 
sea-shells,  and  these  he  would  turn  over  and  over,  letting 
them  run  through  his  fingers  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold. 

Let  him  catch  the  faintest  glimpse  of  a  shadow  of  a 
sailor  in  the  street  and  he  was  after  it,  and  he  had  once, 
when  he  was  only  four  or  five,  been  caught  by  the  terri- 
fied Jampot,  only  just  in  time,  walking  away  confidently 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIN"  117 

down  the  market-place,  his  hand  in  the  huge  grasp  of  a 
villainous  looking  mariner.  He  was  exceedingly  happy  in 
his  home,  hut  ho  did  often  wonder  whether  he  would  not 
run  away  to  sea ;  of  course,  he  was  going  to  he  a  sailor,  but 
it  seemed  so  long  to  wait  until  he  was  thirteen  or  fourteen, 
and  there  was  the  sea  all  the  time  rolling  in  and  out  and 
inviting  him  to  come. 

Mrs.  Cole  warned  Miss  Jones  of  this  taste  of  Jeremy's : 
"Never  let  him  speak  to  a  sailor.  Miss  Jones.  There  are 
some  horrible  men  in  the  town,  and  Jeremy  simply  is  not 
to  be  trusted  when  sailors  are  concerned." 

Miss  Jones,  however,  could  not  be  always  on  her  guard, 
and  Fate  is  stronger  than  any  governess.  .  ,  . 


n 

Early  in  February  there  came  one  of  those  hints  of 
spring  that  in  Glebeshire  more  than  in  any  other  place  in 
the  world  thrill  and  stir  the  heart.  Generally  they  give 
very  little  in  actual  reward  and  are  followed  by  weeks  of 
hail  and  sleet  and  wind,  but  for  that  reason  alone  their 
burning  promise  is  beyond  all  other  promises  beg-uiling. 
Jeremy  got  up  one  morning  to  feel  that  somewhere  behind 
the  thick  wet  mists  of  the  early  hours  there  was  a  blazing 
sun.  After  breakfast,  opening  the  window  and  leaning 
out,  he  could  see  the  leaves  of  the  garden  still  shining  with 
their  early  glitter  and  the  earth  channelled  into  fissures 
and  breaks,  dark  and  hard  under  the  silver- threaded  frost; 
beneath  the  rind  of  the  soil  he  could  feel  the  pushing, 
heaving  life  struggling  to  answer  the  call  of  the  sun  above 
it.  Far  down  the  road  towards  the  Orchards  a  dim  veil  of 
gold  was  spreading  behind  the  walls  of  mist ;  the  sparrows 


118  JEEEMY 

on  the  almond  tree  near  his  window  chattered  like  the  girls 
of  the  High  School,  and  blue  shadows  stole  into  the  dim 
grey  sky,  just  as  light  breaks  upon  an  early  morning  sea; 
the  air  was  warm  behind  the  outer  wall  of  the  frosty  morn- 
ing, and  the  faint  gold  of  the  first  crocus  beneath  the 
garden  wall  near  the  pantry  door,  where  always  the  first 
crocuses  came,  caught  his  eye.  Even  as  he  watched  the  sun 
burst  the  mist,  the  trees  changed  from  dim  grey  to  sharp 
black,  the  blue  flooded  the  sky,  and  the  Cathedral  beyond 
the  trees  shone  like  a  house  of  crystal. 

All  this  meant  spring,  and  spring  meant  hunting  for 
snowdrops  in  the  Meads.  Jeremy  informed  Miss  Jones, 
and  Miss  Jones  was,  of  course,  agreeable.  They  would 
walk  that  way  after  luncheon. 

The  Meads  fall  in  a  broad  green  slope  from  the  old 
Cathedral  battlement  down  to  the  River  Pol.  Their  long 
stretches  of  meadow  are  scattered  with  trees,  some  of  the 
oldest  oaks  in  Glebeshire,  and  they  are  finally  bounded  by 
the  winding  path  of  the  Rope  Walk  that  skirts  the  river 
bank.  Along  the  Rope  Walk  in  March  and  April  the  daffo- 
dils first,  and  the  primroses  afterwards,  are  so  thick  that, 
from  the  Cathedral  walls,  the  Rope  Walk  looks  as  though  it 
wandered  between  pools  and  lakes  of  gold.  In  the  Orchards 
on  the  hill  also  they  run  like  rivers. 

Upon  this  afternoon  there  were  only  the  trees,  faintly 
pink,  along  the  river  and  the  wide  unbroken  carpet  of 
green.  Miss  Jones  walked  up  and  down  the  Rope  Walk, 
whilst  ]\rary  told  her  an  endless  and  exceedingly  confused 
story  that  had  begun  more  than  a  week  ago  and  had  reached 
by  now  such  a  state  of  "To  be  continued  in  our  next"  that 
Miss  Jones  had  only  the  vaguest  idea  of  what  it  was  all 
about.     Her  mind  therefore  wandered,  as  indeed,  did  al- 


THE  SEA-CAPTAm  119 

ways  the  minds  of  Mary's  audiences,  and  Mary  never 
noticed  but  stared  with  the  rapt  gaze  of  the  creator  tlirough 
her  enormous  glasses,  out  into  an  enchanted  world  of  golden 
princesses,  white  elephants  and  ropes  and  ropes  of  rubies. 
Miss  Jones  meanwhile  thought  of  her  young  days,  her 
illnesses  and  a  certain  hat  that  she  had  seen  in  Thornley's 
windows  in  the  High  Street.  Jeremy,  attended  by  Hamlet, 
hunted  amongst  the  trees  for  snowdrops. 

Hamlet  had  been  worried  ever  since  he  could  remember 
by  a  theory  about  rabbits.  He  had  been  told,  of  course, 
about  rabbits  by  his  parents,  and  it  had  even  been  suggested 
to  him  that  he  would  be  a  mighty  hunter  of  the  same  when 
he  grew  to  a  certain  age.  He  had  now  reached  that  age, 
but  never  a  rabbit  as  yet  had  he  encountered.  He  might 
even  have  concluded  that  the  whole  Eabbit  story  was  a 
myth  and  a  legend  were  it  not  that  certain  scents  and 
odours  were  for  ever  tantalising  his  nose  that  could,  his 
instinct  told  him,  mean  Rabbit  and  only  Rabbit.  These 
scents  met  him  at  the  most  tantalising  times,  pulling  him 
this  way  and  that,  exciting  the  wildest  hopes  in  him,  after- 
wards condemned  to  sterility;  as  ghosts  haunt  the  con- 
vinced and  trusting  spiritualist,  so  did  rabbits  haunt  Ham- 
let. He  dreamt  of  Rabbits  at  night,  he  tasted  Rabbits  in 
his  food,  he  saw  them  scale  the  air  and  swim  the  stream — 
now,  he  was  close  on  their  trail,  now  he  had  them  round 
that  tree,  up  that  hill,  down  that  hole  .  .  .  sitting  tran- 
quilly in  front  of  the  schoolroom  fire  he  would  scent  them ; 
always  they  eluded  him,  laughed  at  him,  mocked  him  with 
their  stumpy  tails.  They  were  rapidly  becoming  the  ob- 
session of  his  nights  and  days. 

Upon  this  afternoon  the  air  was  full  of  Rabbit.  The 
Meads  seemed  to  breathe  Rabbit.     He  left  his  master, 


120  ,  JEREMY 

rushed  hither  and  thither,  barked  and  whined,  scratched 
the  soil,  ran  round  the  trees,  lay  cautiously  motionless 
waiting  for  his  foes,  and  now  and  then  sat  and  laughed 
at  himself  for  a  ludicrous  rabbit-bemused  idiot.  He  had  a 
delightful  afternoon.  .  .  . 

Jeremy  then  was  left  entirely  to  himself  and  wandered 
about,  looking  for  snowdrops  under  the  trees,  talking  to 
himself,  lost  in  a  chain  of  ideas  that  included  food  and  the 
sea  and  catapults  and  a  sore  finger  and  what  school  would 
be  like  and  whether  he  could  knock  down  the  Dean's  young- 
est, Ernest,  whom  he  hated  without  knowing  why. 

He  was  lost  in  these  thoughts,  and  had  indeed  wandered 
almost  into  the  little  wood  that  lies  at  the  foot  of  the 
Orchards,  when  he  heard  a  deep  rich  voice  say : 

"I  suppose  you  'aven't  such  a  thing  as  a  match  upon 
you  anywhere,  young  gentleman  ?" 

He  liked  to  be  asked  for  a  match,  a  manly  thing  to  be 
supposed  to  possess,  but,  of  course,  he  hadn't  one,  owing 
to  the  stupidity  of  elderly  relations,  so  he  looked  up  and 
said  politely :  "Xo,  I'm  afraid  I  haven't."  Then  how  his 
heart  whacked  beneath  his  waistcoat !  There,  standing  in 
front  of  him,  was  the  very  figure  of  his  dreams !  Looking 
down  upon  Jeremy  was  a  gentleman  of  middle-age  whom 
experienced  men  of  the  world  would  have  most  certainly 
described  as  "seedy." 

Jeremy  did  not  see  his  "seediness."  He  saw  first  his 
face,  which  was  of  a  deep  brown  copper  colour,  turning 
here  and  there  to  a  handsome  purple ;  ill-shaved,  perhaps, 
but  with  a  fine  round  nose  and  a  large  smiling  mouth.  He 
saw  black  curling  hair  and  a  yachting  cap,  faded  this  last 
and  the  white  of  it  a  dirty  grey  but  set  on  jauntily  at  a 
magnificent  angle.     He  saw  a  suit  of  dark  navy  blue,  this 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIN  121 

again  faded,  spotted  too  with  many  stains,  ragged  at  the 
trouser-ends  and  even  torn  in  one  place  above  the  elbow, 
fitting  also  so  closely  to  the  figure  that  it  must  have  been  at 
bursting  point.  He  saw  round  the  neck  a  dark  navy  hand- 
kerchief, and  down  the  front  of  the  coat  brass  buttons  that 
shook  and  trembled  as  their  owner's  chest  heaved. 

And  what  a  chest !  Jeremy  had  never  conceived  that  any 
hmnan  being  could  be  so  thick  and  so  broad.  The  back, 
spreading  to  the  farthest  limits  of  the  shiny  seams  of  the 
coat,  was  like  a  wall.  The  thighs  were  pillows,  the  arms 
bolsters  and  yet  not  fat,  mind  you,  simply  muscle,  all  of  it. 
One  could  see  in  a  minute  that  it  was  all  muscle,  the  chest 
thrust  forward,  the  legs  spread  wide,  the  bull-neck  bursting 
the  handkerchief,  everything  that  Jeremy  himself  most 
wished  to  be.  A  sailor,  a  monument  of  strength,  with  the 
scent  of  his  "shag"  strong  enough  to  smell  a  mile  away, 
and — ^yes,  most  marvellous  of  all,  gold  rings  in  his  ears! 
His  chest  would  be  tatooed  probably,  and  perhaps  his  legs 
also! 

There,  on  the  back  of  his  hand,  was  a  blue  anchor. 
.  .  .  Jeremy  looked  up  and  trembled  lest  the  vision  should 
fade,  then  flung  a  hurried  look  around  him  to  see  whether 
Miss  Jones  were  near.  Xo  one  was  about.  He  was  alone 
with  the  desire  of  his  life. 

"I'm  so  so  sorry  I  haven't  a  match,"  he  said.  "I'm.  not 
allowed  to  have  them,  you  know." 

"Ko,  I  suppose  not,"  said  the  vision.  "Just  my  blamed 
luck.  There  I  am  with  'undreds  of  pounds  lying  around 
my  room  at  'ome  careless  as  you  please,  and  then  held 
up  for  a  bloomin'  match.  What's  gold  to  a  man  like 
me  ?     But  a  match  .  .  .  there  you  are  .  .  .  that's  life." 

He  looked  at  Jeremy  with  great  interest ;  he  took  in,  aa 


122  JEEEMY 

Jeremy  realised,  every  detail  of  his  personal  appearance. 

"I  like  boys,"  he  said.  "  'Ad  two  myself — 'ealthy  little 
nippers  they  was.  Both  dead — 'ere  to-day  and  gone  to- 
morrer,  as  you  might  say.  Got  your  nurse  'anging  around 
anywhere  ?" 

"Xurse?"  said  Jeremy  indignantly.  ^^I  don't  have  a 
nurse.  I'm  much  too  old !  There  is  a  governess,  but  she's 
over  there  talking  to  Mary.  She's  my  sister — but  they 
won't  bother  yet — not  till  the  Cathedral  bell  begins." 

"1^0  intention  of  'urting  your  feelings,  young  fellow  my 
lad.  Didn't  think  you'd  want  a  nurse  of  course — big  chap 
like  you.  Thought  you  might  'ave  a  baby  brother  or  such. 
ISTo  offence — I  suppose  you  'aven't  begun  to  smoke  yet. 
Can't  offer  you  some  tobacco." 

Jeremy  coloured.     The  man  was  laughing  at  him. 

"I'm  eight  if  you  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "and  I'm 
going  to  school  in  September." 

"School !"  said  the  mariner,  sniffing  contemptuously. 
"I  don't  think  much  of  school  if  you  ask  me.  I^ow  I  never 
went  to  school,  and  I  can't  see  that  I'm  much  the  worse 
for  not  'aving  been  there.  Contrariwise — I've  seen  many 
a  fine  promising  lad  spoiled  by  too  much  schoolin'.  Be  a 
man  of  the  world,  I  say;  that's  the  direction  you  want  to 
sail  in." 

"Did  you  really  never  go  to  school  ?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"Xot  I !"  replied  the  sailor.  "Flung  out  at  the  age  of 
six,  I  was,  turned  into  a  boat  sailing  to  the  West  Indies 
and  left  to  shift  for  myself — and  'ere  I  am  to-day  a  Cap- 
tain of  as  fine  a  craft  as  you're  ever  likely  to  see,  with 
gold  in  'er  lockers  and  peacocks  in  the  'old — all  in  a  man- 
ner of  speaking,  you  know." 

Jeremy's  eyes  glittered ;  his  face  was  flushed  a  brilliant 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIN  123 

red.  Hamlet  had  returned  from  his  rabbit  hunting  and 
sat  with  his  tongue  out  and  a  wild  adventurous  eye  glitter- 
ing up  at  his  master  from  behind  his  hair,  yet  he  was  not 
noticed. 

''You  were  very  lucky,"  he  said  devoutly,  then  he  went 
on  hurriedly:     "Would  you  mind — you  see,  Miss  Jones 

may  come  at  any  moment — would  you  mind "   he 

choked. 

"Would  I  mind  what  ?"  asked  the  Captain. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  ?  Are  you  tatooed  on  your 
body,  snakes  and  ships  and  things,  like  a  gardener  once 
we  had  ?  He  had  a  sea-serpent  all  down  his  back.  He 
showed  me  one  day." 

The  Captain  smiled  proudly. 

"Tatooed!  Talk  of  tatooing!  I'll  show  yer — and  it 
isn't  everybody  I'd  do  it  for  neither.  But  I've  taken  a 
fancy  to  you,  like  my  own  young  nipper  what  died." 

With  an  air  of  vast  ceremony,  as  though  he  were  throw- 
ing open  the  door  to  all  the  universe,  he  slowly  unwound 
from  about  his  neck  the  dark  blue  handkerchief,  unbut- 
toned his  coat,  then  a  grimy  shirt  and  displayed  a  wall  of 
deep  brown  chest.  This  fine  expanse  had  no  hair  upon  it, 
but  was  illuminated  with  a  superb  picture  of  a  ship  in  full 
sail  against  a  setting  sun,  all  worked  in  the  most  hand- 
some of  blue  tatoo.  Jeremy  gasped.  He  had  never 
dreamed  that  such  things  could  be.  He  ventured  to  touch 
the  ship  with  his  finger,  and  he  could  feel  the  Captain's 
manly  heart  thumping  like  a  muffled  hammer  beneath 
the  skin. 

"There's  Queen  Victoria  on  my  right  thigh  and  !N'elson 
on  my  left,  and  the  battle  of  Trafalgar  on  the  middle  of 
my  back.    P'raps  I'll  show  'em  you  one  day.    It  wouldn't 


124  JEREMY 

be  decent  exactly  'ere — too  public.    But  one  day  you  come 
to  my  little  place  and  I'll  show  'em  you." 

"Will  you  really?"  said  Jeremy.  "Didn't  it  burt  ter- 
ribly?" 

"Hurt !"  said  tbe  Captain.  "I  sbould  just  think  it  did. 
I  'ad  to  put  cotton  wool  behind  my  teeth  to  prevent  myself 
from  screaming.  iBut  that's  nothing.  What  do  you  say  to 
being  tortured  by  the  Caribbees  natives  every  day  after 
breakfast  for  three  'ole  months.     A, tooth  out  a  day " 

"But  your  teeth  are  all  there,"  said  Jeremy. 

"False,"  said  the  Captain.  "Every  one  of  'em.  And 
the  things  they'll  do  to  your  toenails — it  'ud  make  your 
'air  creep  on  your  'ead  to  listen  to  the  things  I  could  tell 
you " 

"Oh,  it's  awful!"  said  Jeremy.  "And  where  is  your 
ship  now?" 

"Ah,  my  ship !"  the  Captain  replied,  winking  in  the 
most  mysterious  fashion;  "it  would  be  telling  to  say  where 
that  is.  I  can  trust  you,  I  know;  I'm  a  great  judge  o' 
character,  I  am,  but  not  even  with  my  own  mother,  gone 
to  glory  now  twenty  years  and  as  holy  a  soul  as  ever 
breathed,  I  wouldn't  trust  even  'er  with  the  secret." 

"Why  is  it  a  secret  ?"  asked  Jeremy  breathlessly. 

"Treasure,"    said    the    Captain,    dropping    his    voice. 

"Treasure,  nothing  less  nor  more.  Between  you  and 
me  there's  enough  gold  on  that  there  ship  to  satisfy  the 
Prime  Minister  'imself,  to  say  nothing  of  the  jewels — 
rubies,  pearls,  diamonds.  My  word,  if  you  could  see  them 
diamonds.  I'm  looking  about  me  now  for  an  extra  man  or 
two,  and  then  I'm  off  again — silent  come,  silent  go's  my 
motto " 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIN"  125 

"I  suppose  you  don't  happen  to  want  a  cabin-boy?" 
gasped  Jeremy,  his  voice  chocked  in  his  throat. 

"Well,  now,  that's  a  funny  thing,"  said  the  Captain. 
"It's  one  of  the  very  things.  But  I'm  afraid  you're  a  bit 
young.    Yet  I  don't  know.    We  might " 

He  broke  off,  suddenly  lifted  his  finger  to  his  lip,  whis- 
pered : 

"Keep  your  eyes  open.  I'll  be  round  again,"  and  had 
vanished. 

Directly  after  Jeremy  heard  Miss  Jones's  unwelcome 
voice:  "Why,  Jeremy,  we  couldn't  find  you  anywhere. 
It's  turning  cold — tea-time " 

With  a  thump  and  a  thud  and  a  bang  he  fell  back  into 
the  homely  world. 

m 

Jeremy  was  a  perfectly  normal  little  boy,  and  I  defy 
anyone  to  have  discovered  in  him  at  this  stage  in  his  prog- 
ress, those  strange  morbidities  and  irregular  instincts  that 
were  to  be  found  in  such  unhappy  human  beings  as  Do- 
stoieffsky's  young  hero  in  "Podrostok,"  or  the  unpleasant 
son  and  heir  of  Jude  and  Sue.  ISTevertheless,  eight  years 
old  is  not  too  early  for  stranger  impulses  and  wilder  dreams 
than  most  parents  ever  conceive  of,  and  the  fortnight  that 
followed  Jeremy's  meeting  with  the  Sea-Captain  was  as 
peculiar  and  fantastic  a  fortnight  as  he  was  ever,  in  all  his 
later  life,  to  know. 

For  he  was  haunted — really  haunted  in  the  good  old 
solid  practical  meaning  of  the  term — haunted  with  the 
haunting  that  pursued  Sintram  and  many  another  famous 
hero.  And  he  was  haunted  not  only  by  the  Sea-Captain, 
but  by  a  thousand  things  that  attended  in  that  hero's  com- 


126  JEREMY 

pany.  He  was  haunted  by  a  picture — whence  it  had  come 
to  him  he  did  not  know — of  a  dead-white  high  road,  drop- 
ping over  the  hill  into  shadow,  the  light  fading  around  it, 
black,  heavy  hedges  on  every  side  of  it.  From  below  the 
hill  came  the  pounding  of  the  sea,  exactly  as  he  had  heard 
it  so  many  many  times  on  the  hill  above  Eafiel,  and  he 
knew,  although  his  eyes  could  not  catch  it,  that  in  the  valley 
round  the  head  of  the  road  was  the  fishing  village  with  the 
lights  just  coming  in  the  windows,  and  beyond  the  village 
the  sloping  shingly  Cove.  But  he  could  see  only  the  dead- 
white  road,  and  upon  this  his  eyes  were  always  fixed  as 
though  he  were  expecting  someone.  And  he  could  smell 
the  sea-pinks  and  the  grass  damp  with  evening  dew,  and 
the  cold  dust  of  the  road,  and  the  sea-smell  in  the  wind. 
And  he  waited,  knowing  that  the  time  would  come  when  he 
would  be  told  to  descend  the  hill,  pass  through  the  village, 
and  step  out,  under  the  heavy  grey  clouds,  upon  the  little 
shingly  beach.  He  was  aware  then  that  out  at  sea  a  dark, 
black  ship  was  riding,  slipping  a  little  with  the  tide,  one 
light  gleaming  and  swinging  against  the  pale  glow  of  the 
dusky  horizon.  The  church  clock  struck  four  below  the 
hill ;  he  was  still  on  the  high  road  waiting,  his  eyes  strain- 
ing for  figures.  .  .  .  He  was  prepared  for  some  journey, 
because  he  had  at  his  feet  a  bundle.  And  he  knew  that  he 
ought  not  to  be  there.  He  knew  that  something  awful  was 
about  to  happen  and  that,  when  it  had  occurred,  he  would 
be  committed  always  to  something  or  someone.  ...  A 
little  cold  breeze  then  would  rise  in  the  hedges  and  against 
the  silence  that  followed  the  chiming  of  the  clock  he  could 
hear  first  the  bleating  of  a  sheep,  then  a  sudden  pounding 
of  the  sea  as  though  the  breakers  responded  to  the  sudden 
rising  of  the  wind,  then  the  hoofs  of  a  horse,  clear  and 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIN  127 

hard,  upon  the  road.  ...  At  that  moment  the  picture 
clouded  and  was  dim.  Had  this  been  a  dream?  Was  it 
simply  a  confusion  of  summer  visits  to  Eafiel,  stories  told 
him  by  Mary,  pictures  in  books  (a  fine  illustrated  edition 
of  ^'Eedgauntlet"  had  been  a  treasure  to  him  since  he  was  a 
baby),  the  exciting  figure  of  the  Captain,  and  the  begin- 
ning of  spring  ?  And  yet  the  vision  was  so  vividly  detailed 
that  it  was  precisely  like  a  remembered  event.  He  had 
always  seen  things  in  pictures;  punishment  meant  stand- 
ing in  the  comer  counting  the  ships  on  the  wallpaper; 
summer  holidays  meant  the  deep  green  meadows  of  Cow 
Farm,  or  a  purple  pool  under  an  afternoon  sun;  religion 
meant  walking  up  the  great  wide  aisle  of  the  Cathedral 
in  creaking  boots  and  clean  underclothes,  and  so  on.  It 
was  nothing  new  for  him  to  make  a  picture,  and  to  let  that 
picture  stand  for  a  whole  complex  phase  of  life.  But  this  ? 
What  had  it  to  do  with  the  Sea-Captain,  and  why  was  it,  as 
he  knew  in  his  heart  that  it  was,  wicked  and  wrong  and 
furtive?  For  this  had  begun  as  a  high  adventurous 
romance.  There  had  been  nothing  wrong  in  that  first  talk 
in  the  Meads,  when  the  Captain  had  shown  him  the  tatooes. 
The  wickedness  of  it  had  developed  partly  with  his  growing 
longing  to  see  the  Captain  again,  partly  with  the  meeting 
that  actually  followed,  and  partly  with  the  sense  that  grew 
and  grew  as  the  days  passed  that  the  Captain  was  always 
watching  him. 

The  Captain,  during  these  weeks,  seemed  to  be  every- 
where. ISTever  was  there  an  afternoon  that  Jeremy  walked 
out  with  Miss  Jones  and  his  sisters  that  he  did  not  appear. 
It  was  not  very  difficult  to  snatch  a  conversation  with  him. 
Because  the  beauty  of  the  spring  weather  continued,  the 
children  went  every  day  for  a  walk  in  the  Meads,  and  on  at 


128  JEEEMY 

least  three  separate  occasions  Jeremy  and  tlie  Captain  en- 
joyed quite  long  conversations  together.  These  were,  none 
of  them,  so  good  as  that  first  one  had  been.  The  Captain 
was  not  so  genial,  nor  so  light-hearted;  it  seemed  that  he 
had  something  on  his  mind.  Sometimes  he  put  his  hand  on 
Jeremy's  shoulder,  and  the  heavy  pressure  of  his  great 
fingers  made  Jeremy  tremble,  partly  with  terror,  partly 
with  pleasure.  His  face,  also,  was  scarcely  so  agreeable 
as  it  had  seemed  at  first  sight.  His  tremendous  nose 
seemed  to  burn  down  upon  Jeremy  like  a  malignant  fire. 
His  eyes  were  so  small  that  sometimes  they  disappeared 
under  his  fat  cheeks  altogether,  or  only  gleamed  like  little 
sharp  points  of  light  from  under  his  heavy,  shaggy  eye- 
brows. Then,  although  he  tried  to  make  his  voice  pleasant, 
Jeremy  felt  that  that  complaisant  friendliness  was  not  his 
natural  tone.  Sometimes  there  would  be  a  sharp,  barking 
note  that  made  Jeremy  jump  and  his  cheek  pale.  The 
Captain  told  him  no  more  fascinating  stories,  and  when 
Jeremy  wanted  to  know  about  the  ship  with  the  diamonds 
and  rubies  and  the  little  sea  village  where  she  lay  hid  and 
the  Caribbees  natives,  and  the  chances  of  becoming  a  cabin- 
boy,  and  the  further  exploitation  of  the  tatooes — all  these 
things  the  Captain  brushed  aside  as  though  they  no  longer 
interested  him  in  the  least.  He,  on  the  other  hand,  wanted 
now  to  know  exactly  where  Jeremy  lived,  what  the  house 
was  like,  where  the  back  doors  were,  how  the  windows 
opened,  where  Jeremy  slept,  and  so  on.  Jeremy,  pleased 
at  this  interest  in  his  daily  life,  told  him  as  many  things  as 
he  could,  hoping  to  pass  on  afterwards  to  more  exciting 
topics;  how,  for  instance,  the  kitchen  windows  were  fas- 
tened always  last  thing  at  night,  but  you  could  undo  them 
from  the  garden  if  you  liked  with  your  knife,  and  Jeremy 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIK  129 

knew  this  because  Uncle  Samuel  had  done  it  once  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon  when  the  maids  were  all  out  and  he'd 
forgotten  his  door  key.  He  would  have  told  the  Captain 
all  about  the  schoolroom  and  the  toy  village  and  the  Jam- 
pot and  the  fun  they  had  had  teasing  Miss  Jones  had  not 
the  Captain  fiercely  told  him  that  these  things  did  not  in- 
terest him,  and  that  he  had  better  just  answer  the  quesr 
tions  that  were  put  to  him.  It  was  indeed  strange  to  see 
how,  with  every  interview,  the  Captain  grew  fiercer  and 
fiercer  and  sharper  and  sharper.  lie  made  no  allusions 
now  to  "  'is  little  nipper,"  said  nothing  about  that  holy 
soul  his  mother,  and  never  mentioned  his  liking  for 
Jeremy.  There  was  evidently  something  on  his  mind,  and 
if  he  had  seemed  mysterious  at  their  first  meeting  it  was 
nothing  to  the  secrecy  that  he  practised  now. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  his  hold  over  Jeremy  grew 
and  grew.  That  dream  of  the  bending  white  road  was 
always  with  Jeremy.  He  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
Captain,  and  while  he  was  certainly  afraid  and  would 
jump  at  the  slightest  sound,  he  was  also  certainly  excited 
beyond  all  earlier  experience.  He  longed,  as  he  lay  awake 
at  night,  to  see  the  Captain.  He  seemed  to  have  always  in 
front  of  his  eyes  the  gi'eat  wall  of  a  chest  with  the  blue 
ship  on  it,  and  the  bolster  legs,  and  the  gigantic  hands. 
Strangest  of  all  was  the  sense  of  evil  that  came  with  the 
attraction. 

He  longed  to  be  in  the  man's  company  as  he  longed 
to  do  something  that  he  had  been  always  told  not  to  do, 
and  when  he  caught  sight  of  him  a. sudden,  hot,  choking 
hand  was  pressed  upon  his  heai't,  and  he  was  terrified,  de- 
lighted, frightened,  ashamed,  all  in  one.  The  Captain 
always  alluded  to  the  things  that  he  would  tell  him,  would 


130  JEEEMY 

show  him.  one  day — ''"When  you  come  to  my  little  place  I'll 
teach  yer  a  thing  or  two" — and  Jeremy  would  wonder  for 
hours  what  this  little  place  would  be  like  and  what  the 
Captain  would  teach  him.  Meanwhile,  he  saw  him  every- 
where, even  when  he  was  not  there — behind  lamp-posts,  at 
street  comers,  behind  the  old  woman's  umbrella  in  the 
market-place,  peering  round  the  statues  in  the  Cathedral, 
jerking  up  his  head  from  behind  chimney  pots,  looking 
through  the  nursery  windows  just  when  dusk  was  coming 
on,  in  the  passages,  under  stairs,  out  in  the  dark  garden — 
and  always  behind  him  that  horrid  dream  of  the  dead- 
white  road  and  the  shingly  Cove.  .  .  .  Yes,  poor  Jeremy 
was  truly  haunted. 

IV 

That  Miss  Jones  suspected  nothing  of  these  meetings 
must  be  attributed  partly  to  that  lady's  habit  of  wrapping 
herself  in  her  own  thoughts  on  her  walks  abroad,  and  partly 
to  her  natural  short-sightedness.  Once  Mary  said  that  she 
had  noticed  "a  horrid  man  with  a  red  face"  staring  at 
them ;  but  Miss  Jones,  although  she  was  not  a  vain  woman, 
thought  it  nevertheless  quite  natural  that  men  should  stare, 
and  fancied  more  frequently  that  they  did  so  than  was 
strictly  the  truth. 

Jeremy,  meanwhile,  was  occupied  now  vdth  the  thought 
as  to  what  he  would  do  did  the  Captain  really  want  him 
to  go  away  with  him.  He  discussed  it  with  himself,  but 
he  did  not  doubt  what  he  would  do ;  he  would  go.  And  he 
would  go,  he  knew,  with  fear  and  dread,  and  with  a  longing 
to  stay,  and  be  warm  in  the  schoolroom,  and  have  jam  for 
tea,  and  half  an  hour  before  bedtime  downstairs,  and  York- 
shire pudding  on  Sundays.    But  the  Captain  could  make 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIN  131 

him  do  anything.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  Captain  could  make  him 
do  anything.  .  .  . 

His  afternoon  walks  now  were  prolonged  agonies.  He 
would  turn  his  head  at  every  moment,  would  stare  into 
dark  corners,  would  start  at  the  sound  of  steps.  His  sleep 
now  was  broken  with  horrid  dreams,  and  he  would  jump 
up  and  cry  out ;  and  one  night  he  actually  dreamt  of  his 
dead-white  road  and  the  sounds  that  came  up  from  below 
the  hill,  the  bell  and  the  sea,  and  the  distant  rattle  of  the 
little  carts. 

Then  the  Captain  drew  near  to  the  very  house  itself. 
He  haunted  Orange  Street,  could  be  seen  lounging  against 
a  lamp-post  opposite  the  High  School,  looked  once  into  the 
very  garden  of  the  Coles,  Jeremy  watching  him  with  beat- 
ing heart  from  the  schoolroom  window.  It  was  incredible 
to  Jeremy  that  no  one  else  of  the  house  perceived  him ;  but 
no  one  ever  mentioned  him,  and  this  made  it  appear  all  the 
more  a  dream,  as  though  the  Captain  were  invisible  to 
everyone  save  himself.  He  began  to  hate  him  even  more 
than  he  feared  him,  and  yet  with  that  hatred  the  pleasure 
and  excitement  remained.  I  remember  how,  years  ago  in 
Polchester,  when  I  could  not  have  been  more  than  six  vears 
old,  I  myself  was  haunted  with  exactly  that  same  mixture 
of  pleasure  and  horror  by  the  figure  of  a  hunch-backed 
pedlar  who  used  to  come  to  our  town.  Many  years  after 
I  heard  that  he  had  been  hung  for  the  murder  of  some 
wi'etched  woman  who  had  accompanied  him  on  some  of  his 
journeys.  I  was  not  surprised ;  but  when  I  heard  the  story 
I  felt  then  again  the  old  thi'ill  of  mingled  pleasure  and 
fear. 

One  windy  afternoon,  near  dusk,  when  they  were  return- 


132  JERE]\iy 

ing  from  their  walk,  Jeremy  suddenly  heard  the  voice  in 
his  ear : 

"I  may  be  coming  to  visit  yer  one  o'  these  nights.  Keep 
yer  eyes  open  and  yer  tongiie  quiet  if  I  do." 

Jeremy  saw  the  figures  of  Miss  Jones  and  his  sisters 
pass  round  the  corner  of  the  road. 

"What  for  ?"  he  gasped. 

The  Captain's  figure  seemed  to  swell  gigantic  against 
the  white  light  of  the  fading  sky.  The  wind  whistled  about 
their  ears. 

"Just  to  visit  yer,  that's  all.  'Cause  I've  taken  a  fancy 
to  yer."    The  Captain  chuckled  and  had  vanished.  .  .  . 

Jeremy  flung  one  glance  at  the  grey  desolate  road  be- 
hind him,  then  ran  for  his  life  to  join  the  others. 

What,  after  that,  did  he  expect?  He  did  not  know. 
Only  the  Captain  was  drawing  closer,  and  closer,  and 
closer. 

He  could  feel  now  always  his  hot  breath  upon  his  ear. 

Two  days  after  the  whispered  dialogue  in  the  road,  that 
first  promise  of  spring  broke  down  into  a  tempest  of  wind 
and  rain.  The  Coles'  house  in  Orange  Street,  although  it 
looked,  with  its  stout,  white  stone,  strong  enough,  was  old 
and  shaky.  JSTow,  in  the  storm,  it  shook  and  wheezed 
and  rattled  in  every  one  of  its  joints.  Jeremy,  at  ordinary 
times,  loved  the  sound  of  the  wind  about  the  house,  when 
he  himself  was  safe  and  warm  and  cosy ;  but  this  was  now 
another  affair.  Lying  in  his  bed  he  could  hear  the  screama 
down  the  chimney,  then  the  tug  at  his  window-pane,  the 
rattling  clutch  upon  the  wood,  then  the  sweep  under  the 
bed  and  the  rush  up  the  wallpaper,  until  at  last,  from  be- 
hind some  badly  defended  spot  where  the  paper  was  thin, 
there  would  come  a  wailing,  whistling  screech  as  though 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIlSr  133 

someonG  were  Leing  murdered  in  the  next  room.  On  otlior 
days  Jeremy,  when  he  heard  this  screech,  shivered  with  a 
cosy,  creeping  thrill ;  but  now  he  put  his  head  under  the 
bedclothes,  shut  his  eyes  very  tight,  and  tried  not  to  see 
the  Captain  with  his  ugly  nose  and  tiny  gimlet  eyes. 

He  would  be  half  asleep. 

"Come,"  said  the  Captain  from  the  window,  "the  boat 
is  waiting!  You  promised,  you  know.  Come  just  as  you 
are — no  time  to  dress,"  and  poor  Jeremy  would  feel  the 
great,  heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  wake  shivering 
and  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 

On  the  third  day  following  his  last  interview  with  the 
Captain  he  went  to  bed  a  little  reassured  and  comforted. 
Perhaps  the  Captain  had  gone  away.  For  three  days  he 
had  seen  and  heard  nothing  of  him  at  all. 

That  was  a  night  of  rain — rain  that  slashed  and  whipped 
the  house  as  though  it  would  batter  it  to  the  ground.  The 
rain  would  come  with  a  wild  fury  upon  the  panes,  trem- 
bling with  its  excited  anger,  would  crash  against  the  glass, 
then  fall  back  and  hang  waiting  for  a  further  attack ;  next 
the  results  of  the  first  attack  would  slip  and  slide  like 
the  crawling  of  a  thousand  snakes,  then  fall  and  drop 
slowly  and  heavily  as  though  every  drop  were  foretelling 
some  awful  peril.  Jeremy  lay  and  listened;  but  he  re- 
solved that  to-night  he  would  not  be  frightened,  would  not 
think  of  the  Captain. 

He  said  the  Lord's  Prayer  five  times,  then  counted 
sheep  jumping  over  the  gate,  a  safe  solution  for  sleepless 
hours.  He  saw  the  sheep — first  one  a  very  fat  one,  then 
one  a  very  thin  one ;  but  the  gate  stood  at  the  bottom  of  a 
little  hill,  so  that  it  was  very  difficult  for  the  poor  creatures, 
who  jumped  and  slipped  back  on  the  incline.     Then  a  lot 


134  JEEEMY 

of  sheep  insisted  on  jumping  together,  and  he  could  hardly 
count  them — forty-five,  forty-six,  forty-seven,  forty-eight. 
.  .  .  He  was  asleep. 

After  a  long,  long  time  of  soundlessness,  of  lying  upon  a 
sea  that  was  like  a  bed  of  down,  and  looking  up,  happily 
into  clear  hlue  light,  he  was  once  more  conscious  of  the 
rain.  Yes,  there  it  was  with  its  sweeping  rush,  its  smash 
upon  the  pane,  its  withdrawal,  its  trickling  patter  and 
heavy  drops  as  though  it  were  striking  time.  Yes,  that 
was  the  rain  and  that — ^What  was  that  ? 

He  was  wide  awake,  lying  back  against  his  pillow,  but 
his  eyes  staring  in  front  of  them  till  they  burnt.  The 
house  was  absolutely  dark,  absolutely  silent,  but  between 
the  attacks  of  the  rain  there  was  a  sound,  something  that 
had  not  to  do  with  the  house  nor  with  the  weather.  He 
strained  with  his  ears,  sitting  up  in  bed,  his  hands  clutch- 
ing the  bed  clothes.  He  heard  it  quite  clearly  now.  Some- 
one was  moving  in  the  nursery. 

With  that  the  whole  of  his  brain  was  awake  and  he  knew 
quite  clearly,  beyond  a  shadow  of  any  doubt,  what  had 
happened ;  the  Captain  had  come  to  fetch  him.  With  that 
knowledge  an  icy  despair  gripped  him.  He  did  not  want 
to  go.  Oh,  he  did  not  want  to  go!  He  was  trembling 
from  head  to  foot  so  that  the  bed  shook  beneath  him,  his 
breath  came  in  little  hot  gasping  pants,  and  his  eyes  were 
wide  with  terror.  He  was  helpless.  The  Captain  would 
only  say  "Come,"  and  go  he  must,  leave  his  warm  house 
and  his  parents  whom  he  loved  and  Mary  and  Helen  and 
Hamlet,  yes,  and  even  Miss  Jones.  He  would  be  dragged 
down  the  long  white  road,  through  the  lighted  village,  out 
on  to  the  shiny  beach,  in  a  boat  out  to  the  dark  ship — and 
then  he  would  be  alone  with  the  Captain,  alone  in  the  dark 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIN  .      135 

ship,  witli  the  Captain's  heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  his 
mouth  smiling,  his  great  legs  drawing  him  in  as  a  spider 
draws  a  fly  into  its  web,  and  everyone  asleep,  only  the 
stars  and  the  dark  water.  lie  tried  to  say  the  Lord's 
Prayer  again,  but  the  words  would  not  come.  The  sweat 
began  to  trickle  down  his  nose.  .  .  . 

Then  he  heard  in  the  next  room  some  movement  against 
a  piece  of  furniture  and  a  voice  muttering.  That  de- 
cided him :  better  to  go  and  face  it  than  to  wait  there,  so  as 
though  he  were  moving  in  his  sleep,  he  got  out  of  bed, 
crossed  the  floor  and  entered  the  schoolroom. 

The  first  sound  that  he  heard  was  the  ticking  of  the  old 
nursery  clock,  a  strange  familiar  voice  in  this  awful  world, 
then  suddenly,  although  the  room  was  in  black  darkness, 
he  himself  was  staring  into  blazing  light. 

He  started  back  and  uttered  a  little  cry,  but  even  as  he 
did  so  that  well-remembered  hand  was  upon  his  shoulder 
and  the  well-kno^vn  voice  in  his  ear: 

"Move  an  inch,  utter  a  sound,  and  I  blow  yer  brains  out, 

yer "  the  voice,  very  low,  faded  inta  the  dark.     He 

was  staring  into  a  lantern,  and  above  the  lantern  was  the 
dark  body  of  the  Captain.  Then  as  he  looked  up  he  was 
indeed  near  his  last  moment,  for  had.  he  not  been  a  brave 
boy,  old  for  his  years,  and  determined,  he  would  have  cried 
out  with  a  scream  that  would  have  raised  the  house. 

The  Captain  had  no  face.  .  .  .  The  Captain  had  no 
face.  .  .  .  Only  out  of  a  deep  darkness  those  little  eyes 
glittered  like  candle-points.     Jeremy  uttered  no  sound. 

Then  catching  the  Captain's  coat  because  he  trembled  so, 
hie  said :  "I'm  coming  at  once — but  don't  wake  Mary  and 
Helen.  They'd  be  frightened.  May  I  get  a  coat,  because 
it  raining  ?" 


136  JEREMY 

"Coming!"  wliispered  the  Captain,  his  voice  coming 
from  that  space  in  the  air  where  were  his  eyes.  "You 
move  one  inch  from  'ere  or  utter  one  sound  and  I  do  yer 
in,  yer I'm  watchin'  yer,  mind !" 

The  lantern  light  suddenly  vanished.  The  room  was 
black.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  ticking  of  the  clock, 
and  now  the  rain,  which  had  seemed  to  stop  during  this 
terrible  dialogue,  beat  with  friendly  comfort  once  more 
upon  the  pane.  Jeremy  stood  there,  his  body  held  together 
as  though  in  an  iron  case,  scarcely  breathing.  There  was 
no  more  sound  at  all.  Quite  clearly  now  Mary's  snores 
could  be  heard  coming  from  her  room. 

Jeremy  had  only  one  thought — only  one  thought  in  all 
the  world.  The  Captain  did  not  want  him.  The  Captain 
had  gone  and  not  taken  him  with  him.  He  was  safe;  he 
was  freed ;  the  terror  was  over  and  he  was  at  liberty. 

At  last  he  moved  back  to  his  room.  He  got  into  bed 
again.  He  was  terribly  cold,  and  little  spasms  of  shivers 
seized  him,  but  he  did  not  care.  The  Captain  was  gone, 
and  he  had  not  taken  him  with  him.  .  .  . 


He  was  not  aware  whether  he  slept  or  no,  but  suddenly 
sunlight  was  in  the  room,  the  bath-water  was  running,  the 
canary  was  singing  and  Hamlet  was  scratching  upon  his 
door.  He  jumped  out  of  bed  and  let  the  dog  in.  Then  he 
heard  Eose's  voice  from  the  next  room: 

".  .  .  and  'e's  taken  everything,  'e  'as.  All  the  silver 
candlesticks  and  the  plate  what  was  give  to  master  by 
the  Temp'rance  Society,  and  Master  Jeremy's  mug  what 
he  'ad  at  'is  christening  and  all  the  knives  and  forks — 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIN"  137 

'e  'as — and  tho  gold  clock  out  o'  the  drorin'-room,  and  the 
mess!  Why,  I  says  to  Cook  'e  couldn't  'ave  made  more 
mess,  I  say,  not  if  'e'd  come  to  do  nothin'  else.  Grease 
everywhere,  you  never  see  nothin'  like  it,  and  all  the 
drawers  open  and  the  papers  scattered  about.  Thank 
'Eaven  'e  never  found  Cook's  earrings.  Real  gold  they 
was,  ever  so  many  carat  and  give  to  Cook  ever  so  many 
years  ago  by  'er  John.  Poor  woman!  She'd  'ave  been 
in  a  terrible  takin'  if  she'd  lost  'em.  .  .  .  And  so  quiet 
too — not  a  sound  and  everyone  sleopin'  all  round  'im. 
Wonderful  'ow  they  does  it!  I  thank  the  Lord  I  didn't 
'ear  'im;  I'd  'ave  died  of  fright — shouldn't  like!  Why, 
Cook  says  she  knew  a  'ouse  once  .  .  ." 

But  Jeremy  did  not  listen,  he  did  not  care.  As  Hamlet 
sprang  about  him  and  licked  his  hand  he  thought  of  one 
thing  alone. 

The  Captain  was  gone!  The  Captain  was  gone!  He 
was  free!  The  Captain  had  not  taken  him,  and  he  was 
free  at  last ! 


CHAPTEE   VI 


FAMILY  PEIDE 


I  AM  afraid  that  too  great  a  part  of  this  book  is  alDOiit- 
old  maids,  but  it  is  hard  for  anyone  who  knows  only 
the  thriving  bustling  world  of  to-day  to  realise  how  largely 
we  children  were  hemmed  in  and  surrounded  by  a  proper 
phalanx  of  elderly  single  ladies  and  clergymen.  I  don't 
believe  that  we  were  any  the  worse  for  that,  and  to  such 
heroines  as  Miss  Jane  Maple,  Miss  Mary  Trefusis  and 
old  Miss  Jessamin  Trenchard,  I  here  publicly  acknowledge 
deep  and  lasting  debt — but  it  did  make  our  life  a  little 
monotonous,  a  little  unadventurous,  a  little  circumscribed 
— and  because  I  am  detennined  to  give  the  whole  truth  and 
nothing  but  the  truth  about  the  year  of  Jeremy's  life 
that  I  am  describing,  this  book  will  also,  I  am  afraid,  be 
a  little  circumscribed,  a  little  unadventurous. 

The  elderly  lady  who  most  thoroughly  circumscribed 
Jeremy  was,  of  course — putting  Miss  Jones,  who  was  a 
governess  and  therefore  did  not  count,  aside — Aunt  Amy. 

ISTow  Aunt  Amy  was  probably  the  most  conceited  woman 
in  Polcliester.  There  is  of  course  ordinary  human  con- 
ceit, of  which  every  living  being  has  his  or  her  share. 
I  am  not  speaking  of  that ;  Miss  Amy  Trefusis  might  be 
said  to  be  fanatically  conceited. 

138 


FAMILY  PEIDE  139 

Although  she  was  now  a  really  plain  elderly  woman  it 
is  possible  that  when  she  was  a  little  girl  she  was  pretty. 
In  any  case,  it  is  certain  that  she  was  spoiled  when  she 
was  a  little  girl,  and  because  she  was  delicate  and  selfish 
she  received  a  good  deal  more  attention  and  obedience 
from  weak  and  vacillating  elders  than  she  deserved. 

After  her  growing  up  she  had  a  year  or  two  of  moderate 
looks  and  she  received,  during  this  period,  several  pro- 
posals; these  she  refused  because  they  were  not  good 
enough  and  something  better  must  be  coming  very  shortly, 
but  what  really  came  very  shortly  was  middle-age,  and 
it  came  of  course  entirely  unperceived  by  the  lady.  She 
dressed  and  behaved  as  though  she  were  still  twenty, 
although  her  brother  Samuel  tried  to  laugh  her  out  of  such 
absurdities.  But  no  sister  ever  pays  attention  to  a  brother 
on  such  matters,  and  Aunt  Amy  wore  coloured  ribbons  and 
went  to  balls  and  made  eyes  behind  her  fan  for  season  after 
season.  Then  as  time  passed  she  was  compelled  by  her 
mirror  to  realise  that  she  was  not  quite  so  young  as  she  had 
once  been,  so  she  hurriedly  invented  a  thrilling  past  history 
for  herself,  alluding  to  affair  after  affair  that  had  come 
to  nothing  only  because  she  herself  had  ruthlessly  slain 
them,  and  dressing  herself  more  reasonably,  but  with  little 
signs  and  hints,  in  the  shape  of  chains  and  coloured  bows 
and  rings,  that  she  could  still  be  young  if  she  so  pleased, 
and  that  she  was  open  to  offers,  although  she  could  not 
promise  them  much  encouragement.  She  liked  the  society 
of  Canons,  and  was  to  be  seen  a  great  deal  with  old  Canon 
Borlase,  who  was  as  great  a  flirt  as  he  was  an  egotist,  so 
that  it  did  not  matter  to  him  in  the  least  with  whom  he 
flirted,  and  sat  at  the  feet  of  old  Canon  Morpheu,  who 
was  so  crazy  about  the  discoveries  that  he  had  made  in  the 


140  JEEEMY 

life  of  Ezekiel  that  it  was  quite  immaterial  to  him  to 
whom  he  explained  them. 

She  descended  from  these  clerical  flights  into  the  bosom 
of  family  life  with  some  natural  discontent.  Her  brother 
Samuel  she  had  always  disliked  because  he  laughed  at  her ; 
her  sister  she  did  not  care  for  because  she  was  very  inno- 
cently, poor  lady,  flaunting  her  superior  married  state ;  and 
her  brother-in-law  she  did  not  like  because  he  always 
behaved  as  though  she  were  one  of  a  vast  public  of  elderly 
ladies  who  were  useful  for  helping  in  clerical  displays,  but 
were  otherwise  non-existent.  Then  she  hated  children,  so 
that  she  really  often  wondered  why  she  continued  to  live 
with  her  brother-in-law,  but  it  was  cheap,  comfortable  and 
safe,  and  although  she  assured  herself  and  everyone  else 
that  there  were  countless  homes  wildly  eager  to  receive 
her,  it  was  perhaps  just  as  well  not  to  put  their  eagerness 
too  abruptly  to  the  test. 

There  had  been  war  between  her  and  Jeremy  since 
Jeremy's  birth,  but  it  had  been  war  of  a  rather  mild  and 
inoffensive  character,  consisting  largely  in  Jeremy  on  his 
side  putting  out  his  tongue  at  her  when  she  could  not  see 
him,  and  she  on  her  side  sending  him  to  wash  his  ears 
when  they  really  did  not  require  to  be  washed.  She  had 
felt  always  in  Jeremy  an  obstinate  dislike  of  her,  and  as 
he  had  seemed  to  her  neither  a  very  clever  nor  intelligent 
child  she  had  consoled  herself  very  easily  with  the  thought 
that  he  did  not  like  her  simply  because  he  was  stupid.  So 
it  had  been  until  this  year,  and  then  suddenly  they  had 
been  flung  into  sharper  opposition.  It  was  hard  to  say 
what  had  brought  this  about,  but  it  was  perhaps  that 
Jeremy  had  sprung  suddenly  from  the  unconscious  indif- 
ference of  a  young  child  into  the  active  participation  of 


FAMILY  PRIDE  141 

a  growing  boy.  Whatever  the  truth  might  have  been,  the 
coming  of  Hamlet  had  drawn  their  attitudes  into  positive 
conflict. 

Aunt  Amy  had  felt  from  the  first  that  Hamlet  laughed 
at  her.  Had  you  asked  her  to  state,  as  a  part  of  her 
general  experience,  that  she  really  believed  that  dogs 
could  laugh  at  himaan  beings  she  would  indignantly  have 
repudiated  any  idea  so  fantastic,  nevertheless,  unanalyscd 
and  unconfronted,  that  was  her  conviction.  The  dog 
laughed  at  her,  he  insulted  her  by  walking  into  her  bed- 
room with  his  muddy  feet  and  then  pretending  that  he 
hadn't  known  that  it  was  her  bedroom,  regarding  her 
through  his  hair  with  an  ironical  and  malicious  glance, 
barking  suddenly  when  she  made  some  statement  as  though 
he  enjoyed  immensely  an  excellent  joke,  but,  above  all, 
despising  her,  she  felt,  so  that  the  wall  of  illusion  that  she 
had  built  around  herself  had  been  pulled  down  by  at  least 
one  creature,  more  human,  she  knew,  in  spite  of  herself, 
than  many  human  beings.  Therefore,  she  hated  Hamlet, 
and  scarcely  a  day  passed  that  she  did  not  try  to  have  him 
flung  from  the  house,  or  at  least  kept  in  the  kitchen  offices. 

Hamlet  had,  however,  won  the  hearts  of  the  family ;  it 
was,  indeed,  Aunt  Amy  alone  to  whom  he  had  not  thought 
it  worth  while  to  pay  court.  To  her  alone  he  would  not 
come  when  she  called,  by  her  alone  he  would  not  be 
cajoled,  even  though  she  offered  him  sugary  tea,  his  dead- 
liest temptation.  No,  he  sat  and  looked  at  her  through  his 
hair,  his  fiery  eye  glinting,  his  peaked  beard  ironically 
humorous,  his  leg  stuck  out  from  his  body,  a  pointing 
signal  of  derision. 

She  resolved  to  wait  for  an  opportunity  when  she  might 
conquer  Hamlet  and  Jeremy  together,  but  her  power  in 


142  JEEEMY 

the  bouse  "was  slight,  so  long  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cole  were 
there.  ''If  I  only  had  the  children  to  myself,"  she  would 
say,  "I  would  improve  their  manners  in  many  ways.   Poor 

Alice !"     Then  suddenly  she  did  have  them.     At  tha 

beginning  of  May  Mr.  Cole  was  summoned  to  take  a  mis- 
sion to  the  seamen  of  Drymouth,  and  Mrs.  Cole,  who  had 
relations  in  Drymouth,  accompanied  him.  They  would 
be  absent  from  Polchester  a  whole  week. 

"Oh,  won't  Aunt  Amy  be  a  nuisance,"  said  Jeremy, 
realising  the  situation.  Then  turning  to  Mary  he  added: 
"We'll  pretend  to  do  what  she  tells  us  and  not  do  it  really. 
That's  much  the  easiest." 

A  week  is  a  short  time,  especially  at  the  beginning  of  a 
shining  and  burning  May,  but  Aunt  Amy  did  her  best 
not  only  with  the  children  but  with  the  servants,  and  even 
old  Jordan,  the  gardener,  who  had  been  with  the  Cole 
family  for  twenty  years.  During  that  short  week  the 
cook,  the  parlourmaid,  Rose,  the  housemaid,  and  the  boot- 
boy  all  gave  notice,  and  Mrs.  Cole  was  only  able  to  keep 
them  (on  her  return)  by  raising  the  wages  of  all  of  them. 
Jordan,  who  was  an  old  man  with  a  long  white  beard, 
said  to  her  when  she  advised  him  to  plant  pinks  where  he 
had  planted  tulips  and  tulips  where  he  had  planted  pinks, 
and  further  inquired  why  the  cauliflower  that  he  sent  in 
was  so  poor  and  the  cabbages  so  small :  "Leave  things  alone, 
Miss,  Xature's  wiser  than  we  be,  not  but  what  vou  mavn't 
mean  well,  but  f  ussin's  never  done  any  good  where  Xature's 
concerned,  nor  never  will";  and  when  she  said  that  he  was 
very  rude  to  her,  he  shook  his  head  and  answered : 

"Maybe  yes,  and  maybe  no.  What's  rude  to  one  ain't 
rude  to  another" — out  of  which  answer  she  could  make 
nothing  at  all. 


FAMILY  PEIDE  143 

In  the  schoolroom  she  sustained  complete  defeat.  At 
the  very  outset  she  was  baffled  by  Miss  Jones.  She  had 
always  despised  Miss  Jones  as  a  poor  unfortunate  female 
who  was  forced  to  teach  children  in  her  old  age  because 
she  must  earn  her  living — a  stupid,  sentimental,  covred, 
old  woman  at  whom  the  children  laughed.  She  found  now 
that  the  children  instead  of  laughing  at  her  laughed  with 
her,  formed  a  phalanx  of  protection  around  her  and  re- 
fused to  be  disobedient.  Miss  Jones  herself  was  discovered 
to  have  a  dry,  rather  caustic,  sense  of  humour  that  Aunt 
Amy  felt  to  be  impertinence,  but  could  not  penetrate. 

"And  is  that  really  how  you  teach  them  history,  Miss 
Jones?  'Not  quite  the  simplest  way,  surely.  ...  I  re- 
member an  excellent  governess  whom  we  once  had " 

"Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Jones,  gently,  "you  would  give 
them  a  history  lesson  yourself.  Miss  Trefusis.  I  would 
be  so  glad  to  pick  up  any  little  hints " 

"I  have,  of  course,  no  time,"  said  Aunt  Amy  hurriedly, 
"but,  speaking  generally,  I  am  afraid  I  can't  approve 
altogether  of  your  system." 

"It  isn't  very  good,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Miss  Jones  weakly. 
"The  children  would  be  glad,  I  know,  to  have  a  few  hints 
from  you  if  you  could  spare  a  moment " 

Jeremy,  who  was  listening,  giggled,  tried  to  turn  the 
giggle  into  a  sneeze  and  choked. 

"Jeremy!"  said  Aunt  Amy  severely. 

"Oh.  do  look.  Aunt  Amy !"  cried  Mary,  always  Jeremy's 
faithful  ally,  "all  your  hairpins  are  dropping  out !" 

She  devoted  herself  then  to  Jeremy  and  worried  him  in 
every  possible  way,  and  after  two  days  of  this  he  hated  her 
with  a  deep  and  bitter  hatred,  very  different  from  that 
earlier  teasing  of  Miss  Jones.     That  had  sprung  from  a 


144  JEEEMY 

sudden  delicious  discovery  of  power,  and  had  been  directed 
against  no  one.  This  was  a  real  personal  hatred  that 
children  of  a  less  solid  and  tenacious  temperament  than 
Jeremy  would  have  been  incapable  of  feeling. 

He  did  not  laugh  at  her,  he  did  not  tease  her,  he  no 
longer  put  out  his  tongue  at  her.  He  was  older  than  that 
now — he  was  simply  reserved  and  silent,  watching  her 
with  his  large  eyes,  his  square  body  set,  and  resolved  as 
though  he  knew  that  his  moment  would  come. 

Her  experience  with  him  was  baffling.  She  punished 
him,  petted  him,  she  ignored  him,  she  stormed  at  him;  it 
seemed  that  she  would  do  anything  could  she  only  win 
from  him  an  acknowledgment  of  her  power,  her  capability. 
But  she  could  not.  He  only  said:  "Yes,  Aunt  Amy." 
"1^0,  Aunt  Amy." 

She  burst  out:  "You're  a  sullen,  wicked  little  boy, 
Jeremy.  Do  you  know  what  happens  to  little  boys  who 
sulk  ?" 

"ISTo,  Aunt  Amy." 

"They  grow  into  cross,  bad-tempered  men  whom  nobody 
likes  and  nobody  trusts.  Do  you  want  to  be  like  that  when 
you're  a  man  ?" 

"I  don't  care." 

"You  know  what  happened  to  'Don't  Care.'  I  shall 
have  to  punish  you  if  you're  rude  to  me." 

"What  have  I  done  that's  rude  ?" 

"You  mustn't  speak  to  me  like  that.  Is  that  the  way 
you  speak  to  your  mother  ?" 

"'No,  Aunt  Amy." 

"Well,  then,  if  you  don't  speak  to  your  mother  like 
that,  you  mustn't  speak  to  me  like  that,  either." 

"ISTo,  Aunt  Amy." 


FAMILY  PEIDE  145 

<'Well,  then  .  .  ." 

This  hatred  was  quite  new  to  him.  He  had  once,  years 
ago,  hated  a  black-faced  doll  that  had  been  given  to  him. 
He  had  not  known  why  he  hated  it,  but  there  it  had  been. 
He  had  thrown  it  out  of  the  window,  and  the  gardener 
had  found  it  and  brought  it  into  the  house  again,  battered 
and  bruised,  but  still  alive,  with  its  horrid  red  smile,  and 
this  had  terrified  him.  .  .  .  He  had  begun  to  burn  it,  and 
the  nurse  had  caught  him  and  slapped  him.  He  had 
begun  to  cut  it  with  scissors,  and  when  the  sawdust  flowed 
he  was  more  terrified  than  ever.  But  that  doll  was  quite 
different  from  Aunt  Amy.  He  was  not  terrified  of  her 
at  all.  He  hated  her.  Hated  the  fringe  of  her  black  hair, 
the  heavy  eyelashes,  the  thin  down  on  her  upper  lip,  the 
way  that  the  gold  cross  fell  up  and  down  on  her  breast,  her 
thin,  blue-veined  hands,  her  black  shoes.  She  was  his  first 
enemy,  and  he  waited,  as  an  ambush  hides  and  watches, 
for  his  opportunity.  .  .  . 

II 

One  of  our  nicest  old  maids.  Miss  Maddison,  gave  every 
year  what  she  called  her  "early  summer  party."  This  was 
different  from  all  our  other  parties,  because  it  occurred 
neither  in  the  summer  nor  in  the  winter,  but  always  during 
those  wonderful  days  when  the  spring  first  began  to  fade 
into  the  high  bright  colours,  the  dry  warmth,  the  deep 
green  shadows  of  the  heat  of  the  year.  It  was  early  in  May 
that  Miss  Maddison  had  her  party,  and  we  played  games  on 
her  little  sloping  green  lawn,  and  peered  over  her  pink- 
brick  wall  down  on  to  the  brown  roofs  of  the  houses  below 
the  Close,  and  had  a  tremendous  tea  of  every  kind  of  cake 
and  every  kind  of  jam  in  her  wainscoted  dining-room  that 


146  JEEEMY 

looked  out  througli  its  tall  open  windows  on  to  the  garden. 
Those  old  houses  that  run  in  a  half-moon  round  the 
Close,  and  face  the  green  sward  and  the  great  western 
door  ol  the  Cathedral,  are  the  very  heart  of  Polchester. 
Walking  down  the  cobbled  street,  one  may  still  to-day  look 
through  the  open  door,  down  the  dusky  line  of  the  little 
hall,  out  into  the  swimming  colour  of  the  garden  beyond. 
In  these  little  gardens,  what  did  not  grow  ?  Hollyhocks, 
pinks,  tulips,  nasturtiums,  pansies,  lilies  of  the  valley, 
roses,  honeysuckle,  sweet-williams,  stocks — I  remember 
them  all  at  their  different  seasons  in  that  muddled,  absurd 
profusion.  I  can  smell  them  now,  can  see  them  in  their 
fluttering  colours,  the  great  gi'ey  wall  of  the  Cathedral, 
with  its  high  carved  door  and  watching  saints  behind  me, 
the  sun  beating  on  to  the  cobbles,  the  muffled  beat  of  the 
summer  day,  the  sleepy  noises  of  the  town,  the  pigeons 
cutting  the  thin,  papery  blue  into  arcs  and  curves  and 
circles,  the  little  lattice-windowed  houses,  with  crooked 
chimneys  and  shining  doors,  smiling  down  upon  me.  I 
can  smell,  too,  that  especial  smell  that  belonged  to  those 
summer  hours,  a  smell  of  dried  blotting-paper,  of  corn  and 
poppies  from  the  fields,  of  cobble-stones  and  new-baked 
bread  and  lemonade;  and  behind  the  warmth  and  colour 
the  cool  note  of  the  Cathedral  bell  echoed  through  the 
town,  down  the  High  Street,  over  the  meads,  across  the 
river,  out  into  the  heart  of  the  dark  woods  and  the  long 
spaces  of  the  summer  fields.  I  can  see  myself,  too,  toiling 
up  the  High  Street,  my  cap  on  the  back  of  my  head,  little 
beads  of  perspiration  on  my  forehead,  and  my  eyes  always 
gazing  into  the  air,  so  that  I  stumbled  over  the  cobbles 
and  knocked  against  doorsteps.  All  these  things  had  to  do 
with  Miss  Maddison's  party,  and  it  was  always  her  party 


FAMILY  PRIDE  147 

that  marked  the  beginning  of  them  for  us ;  she  waited  for 
the  fine  weather,  and  so  soon  as  it  came  the  invitations 
were  sent  out,  the  flower-beds  were  trimmed,  the  little  green 
wooden  seats  under  the  mulberry  tree  were  cleaned,  and 
Poupee,  the  black  poodle,  was  clipped. 

It  happened  this  year  that  Mis's  Maddison  gave  her 
party  during  the  very  week  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cole  went 
to  Drymouth.  She  sent  out  her  invitations  only  three  days 
before  the  great  event,  because  the  summer  had  come  with 
so  fine  a  rush.  ''Master  Jeremy  and  the  Misses  Cole.  .  .  . 
Would  they  give  Miss  Maddison  the  pleasure  .  .  .  ?"  Yes, 
of  course  they  would.    Aunt  Amy  would  take  them. 

On  the  morning  of  the  great  day  Jeremy  poured  the 
contents  of  his  watering-can  upon  Aunt  Amy's  head.  It 
was  a  most  unfortunate  accident,  arranged  obviously  by 
a  malignant  fate.  Jeremy  had  been  presented  with  a  pot 
of  pinks,  and  these,  every  morning,  he  most  faithfully 
watered.  He  had  a  bright-red  watering-can,  bought  with 
his  own  money,  and,  because  it  held  more  water  than  the 
pinks  needed,  he  was  in  the  daily  habit  of  emptying  the 
remnant  in  a  glittering  shower  out  of  the  pantry  window 
on  to  the  bed  nearest  the  garden  wall.  Upon  this  morning 
someone  called  him;  he  turned  his  head;  the  water  still 
flowed,  and  Aunt  Amy,  hatless  and  defenceless,  received 
it  as  it  tumbled  with  that  sudden  rush  which  always  seizes 
a  watering-can  at  its  last  gasp.  Jeremy  was  banished  into 
his  bedroom,  where  he  employed  the  sunny  morning  in 
drawing  pictures  of  Aunt  Amy  as  a  witch  upon  the  wall- 
paper. For  doing  this  he  was  caned  by  Aunt  Amy  herself 
with  a  ruler,  and  at  the  end  of  the  operation  he  laughed 
and  said  she  hadn't  hurt  him  at  all.  In  return  for  this 
impertinence  he  was  robbed,  at  luncheon,  of  his  pudding — 


148  JEREMY 

•whicli  was,  of  course,  on  that  very  day,  marmalade  pudding 
— and  then,  Mary  being  discovered  putting  some  of  hers 
into  a  piece  of  paper,  to  be  delivered  to  him  in  due  course, 
they  were  both  stood  in  different  comers  of  the  room 
"until  you  say  you're  sorry." 

When  the  jingle  arrived  at  three  o'clock  they  had 
still  not  made  this  acknowledgment,  and  Jeremy  said  he 
never  would,  "not  if  he  lived  till  he  was  ninety-nine." 

At  quarter  past  three  Jeremy  might  have  been  seen 
sitting  up  very  straight  in  the  jingle,  his  face  crimson 
from  washing  and  temper.  He  was  wearing  his  new  sailor 
suit,  which  tickled  him  and  was  hot  and  sticky;  he  sat 
there  devoting  the  whole  of  his  energies  to  the  business  of 
hating  Aunt  Amy. 

As  I  have  said,  he  had  never  hated  anyone  before,  and 
he  was  surprised  at  the  glow  of  virtuous  triumph  that  this 
new  emotion  spread  over  his  body.  He  positively  loved  to 
hate  Aunt  Amy,  and  as  Parkes,  the  pony,  slowly  toiled  up 
the  hill  to  the  Cathedral,  he  sat  stiff  and  proud  with  an 
almost  humorous  anger.  Then,  as  they  turned  over  the 
hot  shining  cobbles  into  the  Close  and  saw  the  green  trees 
swimming  in  the  sun,  he  turned  his  mind  to  the  party. 
What  games  would  they  play?  Who  would  be  there? 
What  would  there  be  for  tea  ?  He  felt  creeping  over  him 
the  stiff  shyness  that  always  comes  when  one  is  approaching 
a  party,  and  he  wished  that  the  first  handshaking  and  the 
first  plunge  into  the  stares  of  the  critical  guests  might  be 
over.  But  he  did  not  really  care.  His  hatred  of  Aunt 
Amy  braced  him  up ;  when  one  was  capable  of  so  fine  and 
manly  an  emotion  as  this  hatred,  one  need  not  bother  about 
fellow-guests.  Then  the  jingle  stopped  outside  a  house 
immediately   opposite   the   great   west-end    door   of   the 


FAMILY  PRIDE  149 

Cathedral ;  in  the  little  hall  Miss  Maddison  was  standing, 
and  from  the  glittering  garden  behind  her  the  sun  struck 
through  the  house  into  the  shadowed  street. 

Jeremy's  public  manners  were,  when  he  pleased,  quite 
beautiful — ^'the  true,  old-fashioned  courtesy,"  gushing 
friends  of  the  Cole  family  used  to  say.  He  was  preparing 
to  be  very  polite  now,  when  suddenly  the  voice  of  the 
Dean's  Ernest  ordering  people  about  in  the  garden  struck 
upon  his  ear.  He  had  not  seen  the  Dean's  Ernest  for 
nearly  three  months,  for  the  very  good  reason  that  that 
gentleman  had  been  experiencing  his  first  term  at  his 
private  school.  Last  year  young  Ernest  and  Jeremy  had 
been,  on  the  whole,  friendly,  although  Ernest,  who  was 
nine,  and  strong  for  his  age,  had  always  patronised.  And 
now?  Jeremy  longed  to  inform  his  friend  that  he  also 
shortly  would  proceed  to  school,  that  in  another  six  months' 
time  there  would  be  practically  no  difference  between 
them.  Nevertheless,  at  the  present  moment  there  was  a 
difference.  .  .  .  Ernest  had  a  whole  term  to  his  credit. 

!N^ew  arrivals  gently  insinuated  the  Cole  family  into  the 
garden.  Helen,  proud  and  cold,  Mary,  blinking  and 
nervous,  stood  pressed  close  together  whilst  other  little 
girls  stared  and  giggled,  moved  forward  and  then  back- 
ward again,  until  suddenly  Canon  Lasker's  Emily,  who 
was  fifteen  and  had  such  long  legs  that  she  was  known 
as  "the  Giraffe,"  came  up  and  said:  "Isn't  it  hot!  Do 
you  play  croquet?  Please — do!  I'll  have — the — blue 
ball.  .  .  ."  And  the  Coles  were  initiated. 

Meanwhile,  Aunt  Amy  had  said :  "Now,  Jeremy,  dear, 
run  about  and  make  friends."  Which  so  deeply  infuriated 
him  that  he  choked.  Oh !  supposing  the  Dean's  Ernest 
had  heard  her !  .  .  . 


150  '  JEREMY 

And  he  bad !  A  mocking  voice  behind  bim  said :  "ISTow, 
Jeremy,  dear " 

Jeremy  turned  round  and  bebeld  the  Dean's  Ernest 
mockingly  waiting  bis  retort.  And  be  could  not  retort. 
'No  words  would  come,  and  be  could  only  stand  tbere,  bis 
cbeeks  flusbed,  aware  tbat  Ernest  bad  grown  and  grown 
during  those  three  months,  that  be  wore  a  straw  bat  with 
a  black-and-red  ribbon  upon  it,  tbat  round  bis  long  ugly 
neck  was  a  stiff  white  collar,  and  across  bis  waistcoat  a 
thick  silver  watch-chain. 

"Hallo !"  said  Jeremy. 

''Hallo !"  said  the  new  Ernest  scornfully. 

A  long  pause. 

Then  Ernest,  turning  on  bis  heel,  said  to  someone 
behind  bim :  "Let's  get  away  from  all  these  girls !" 

The  tears  burnt  in  Jeremy's  eyes,  hot  and  salt.  He 
clenched  his  fists  and  gazed  upon  a  garden  that  swam  in 
a  mist  of  tears  and  sunlight.  He  felt  a  sudden  strange 
impulse  of  family  affection.  He  would  like  to  have  gath- 
ered behind  him  his  father  and  mother,  Mary,  Helen, 
Hamlet,  Uncle  Samuel — yes,  and  even  Aunt  Amy,  and 
to  have  advanced  not  only  upon  Ernest,  but  upon  the  whole 
Dean's  family.  It  would  have  given  him  great  pleasure  to 
have  set  bis  teeth  into  the  fat  legs  of  the  Dean  himself; 
be  would  gladly  have  torn  the  bat  from  the  head  of  Mrs. 
Dean.  .  .  .  Upon  Ernest  there  was  no  torture  be  would 
not  employ. 

He  would  get  even ;  be  resolved  tbat  before  be  left  tbat 
house  be  would  have  his  revenge. 

Kind  Miss  Maddison,  tripping  along  and  seeing  bim 
as  a  pathetic  little  boy  in  a  sailor  suit  without  guile  or 
malice,  swept  him  into  an  "I  spy"  party  composed  for  the 


FAMILY  PRIDE  151 

most  part  of  small  girls  who  fell  down  and  cried  and  said 
they  would  go  home. 

Jeremy,  hiding  behind  a  tree,  watched  the  thin  hack 
of  Ernest  as  it  lifted  itself  autocratically  above  two  small 
boys  who  looked  up  to  him  with  saucer-eyes.  Ernest  was 
obviously  talking  about  his  school.  Jeremy,  lost  in  the 
contemplation  of  his  vengeance,  forgot  his  game,  and  was 
taken  prisoner  with  the  greatest  of  ease.  He  did  not  care. 
The  afternoon  was  spoilt  for  him.  He  was  not  even 
hungry.  Why  could  he  not  go  to  school  to-morrow,  and 
then  challenge  Ernest  to  combat  ?  But  he  might  challenge 
Ernest  without  going  to  school.  .  .  .  lie  had  never  fought 
a  real  fight,  but  the  sight  of  his  enemy's  thin,  peaky  body 
was  encouraging. 

'^N'ow,  Jeremy,  dear,"  said  Miss  Maddison,  "it's  your 
turn  to  hide.  .  .  ." 

Soon  they  all  went  in  to  tea.  Everyone  was  thoroughly 
at  home  by  this  time,  and  screamed  and  shouted  quite  in 
the  most  natural  manner  in  the  world.  The  long  table 
stretched  down  the  whole  room,  almost  from  wall  to  wall ; 
the  sunlight  played  in  pools  and  splashes  upon  the  carpet 
and  the  flowers  and  the  pictures.  There  was  every  sort 
of  thing  to  eat — thin  bread-and-butter  rolled  up  into  little 
curly  sandwiches,  little  cakes  and  big  cakes,  seed  cakes 
and  sugar  cakes,  and,  of  course,  saffron  buns,  jam  in  little 
shining  dishes,  and  hot  buttered  toast  so  buttery  that  it 
dripped  on  to  your  fingers. 

Jeremy  sat  next  to  Mary,  and  behind  him  hovered  Aimt 
Amy.  Only  half  an  hour  ago  how  this  would  have  angered 
him !  To  have  her  interfering  with  him,  saying :  "^ot 
two  at  a  time,  Jeremy,"  or  "Pass  the  little  girl  the  sugar, 
Jeremy — remember  your  manners,"  or  "Xot  so  big  a  piece, 


152  JEREMY 

Jeremy."  But  now — be  did  not  know.  .  .  .  She  was  one 
of  the  family,  and  he  felt  as  though  the  Dean's  Ernest  had 
scorned  her  as  well  as  himself.  Also  Mary.  He  felt  kind 
to  Mary,  and  when  she  whispered  "x\re  you  enjoying  it, 
Jeremy  ?"  he  answered  "Yes ;  are  you  ?"  Not  because  he 
was  really  enjoying  it,  but  because  he  knew  that  she  wanted 
him  to  say  that. 

He  could  see  Ernest  from  where  he  sat,  and  he  knew 
that  Ernest  was  laughing  at  him.  He  remembered  that 
he  had  given  Ernest  three  splendid  marbles,  just  before 
his  departure  to  school,  as  a  keepsake.  How  he  wished 
that  he  had  kept  them!  He  would  never  give  Ernest 
anything  again  except  blows.  Mary  might  be  tiresome 
sometimes,  but  she  was  his  sister,  and  he  greatly  preferred 
her  as  a  girl  to  Ernest's  sisters.  He  could  see  them  now, 
greedy,  ugly  things.  .  .  . 

"Now,  Jeremy,  wipe  your  mouth,"  said  Aunt  Amy. 
He  obeyed  at  once. 

in 

Tea  over,  they  all  trooped  out  into  the  garden  again. 
The  evening  light  now  painted  upon  the  little  green  lawn 
strange  trembling  shadows  of  purple  and  grey;  the  old 
red  garden  wall  seemed  to  have  crept  forwards,  as  though 
it  would  protect  the  house  and  the  garden  from  the  night ; 
and  a  sky  of  the  faintest  blue  seemed,  with  gentle  approval, 
to  bless  the  quiet  town  fading  into  dusk  beneath  it.  Over 
the  centre  of  the  lawn  the  sun  was  still  shining,  and  there 
it  was  warm  and  light.  But  from  every  side  the  shadows 
stealthily  crept  forward.  A  group  of  children  played 
against  the  golden  colour,  their  white  dresses  patterns  that 
formed  figures  and  broke  and  formed  again.  The  Cathedral 


FAMILY  PRIDE  153 

beU  was  ringing  for  evensong,  and  its  notes  stole  about  the 
garden,  and  in  and  out  amongst  the  children,  as  though 
some  guardian  spirit  watching  over  their  safety  counted 
their  numbers. 

Jeremy,  feeling  rather  neglected  and  miserable,  stood 
in  the  shadow  near  the  oak  on  the  farther  side  of  the  lawn. 
He  did  not  want  to  play  with  those  little  girls,  and  yet  he 
was  hurt  because  he  had  ik)t  been  asked.  The  party  had 
been  a  most  miserable  failure,  and  a  year  ago  it  would  have 
been  such  a  success.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was  standing 
now,  in  the  middle  of  his  eighth  year,  at  the  parting  of 
the  ways;  that  only  yesterday  he  had  been  a  baby,  and 
that  he  would  never  be  a  baby  again.  He  did  not  feel 
his  independence — he  felt  only  inclined  to  tears  and  a 
longing,  that  he  would  never,  never  confess,  even  to  him- 
self, that  someone  should  come  and  comfort  him !  ISTever- 
theless,  even  at  this  very  moment,  although  he  did  not 
know  it,  he,  a  free,  independent  man,  was  facing  the  world 
for  the  first  time  on  his  own  legs.  His  mother  might  have 
realised  it  had  she  been  there — but  she  was  not.  Mary, 
however,  was  there,  and  in  the  very  middle  of  her  game, 
searching  for  him,  as  she  was  always  doing,  she  found  him 
desolate  under  the  shadow  of  the  oak.  She  slipped  away, 
and,  coming  up  to  him  with  the  shyness  and  fear  that  she 
always  had  when  she  approached  him,  because  she  loved 
him  so  much  and  he  could  so  easily  hurt  her,  said: 

"Aren't  you  coming  to  play,  Jeremy  ?" 

"I  don't  care,"  he  answered  grufSy. 

"It  isn't  any  fun  without  you."  She  paused,  and  added : 
"Would  you  mind  if  I  stayed  here  too  ?" 

"I'd  rather  you  played,"  he  said;  and  yet  he  was  com- 


154  JEREMY 

forted  by  lier,  determined,  as  he  was,  that  she  should 
never  know  it ! 

"I'd  rather  stay,"  she  said,  and  then  gazed,  with  that 
melancholy  stare  through  her  large  spectacles  that  always 
irri+^ated  Jeremy,  out  across  the  garden. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  said  again;  "only  my  stocking 
tickles,  and  I  can't  get  at  it — it's  the  back  of  my  leg. 
I  say,  Mary,  don't  you  hate  the  Dean's  Ernest  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  answered  fervently,  although  she  had 
not  thought  about  him  at  all — enough  for  her  that  Jeremy 
should  hate  him !    Then  she  gasped :  "Here  he  comes " 

He  was  walking  towards  them  with  a  swagger  of  his 
long  yellow  neck  and  his  thin  leggy  body  that  Jeremy 
found  especially  offensive.  Jeremy  "bristled,"  and  Mary 
was  conscious  of  that  bristling. 

"Hallo !"  said  Ernest. 

"Hallo !"  said  Jeremy. 

"What  rot  these  silly  games  are!"  said  Ernest.  "Why 
can't  they  have  something  decent,   like  cricket  ?" 

Jeremy  had  never  played  cricket,  so  he  said  nothing. 
"At  our  school,"  said  Ernest,  "we're  very  good  at  cricket. 
We  win  all  our  matches  always " 

"I  don't  care  about  your  school,"  said  Jeremy,  breathing 
through  his  nose. 

The  Dean's  Ernest  was  obviously  surprised  by  this;  he 
had  not  expected  it.    His  pale  neck  began  to  flush. 

"Look  here,  young  Cole,"  he  said,  "none  of  your  cheek." 

This  was  a  new  dialect  to  Jeremy,  who  had  no  friends 
who  went  to  school.  All  he  said,  however,  breathing  more 
fiercely  than  before,  was :  "I  don't  care " 

"Oh,  don't  you  ?"  said  Ernest.     "I^ow,  look  here " 

Then  he  paused,  apparently  uncertain,  for  a  moment,  of 


FAMILY  PRIDE  155 

his  courage.  The  sight  of  Mary's  timorous  anxiety,  how- 
ever, reassured  him,  aiid  he  continued :  "It's  all  right  for 
you,  this  sort  of  thing.  You  ought  to  be  in  the  nursery 
with  your  old  podge-faced  nurse.  Kids  like  you  oughtn't 
to  be  allowed  out  of  their  prams." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Jeremy  again,  seeing  in  front  of 
him  the  whole  family  of  the  Keverend  Dean.  "Your 
school  isn't  much  anyway,  I  expect,  and  I'm  going  to 
school  in  September,  and  I'll  wear  just  the  same  things 
as  you  do  and " 

Ho  wanted  to  comment  upon  the  plain  features  of 
Ernest's  sisters,  but  his  gentlemanly  courtesy  restrained 
him.  He  paused  for  breath,  and  Ernest  seized  his  advan- 
tage. 

"You  have  to  have  an  old  aunt  to  look  after  you  any- 
way— an  ugly  old  aunt.  I  wouldn't  have  an  old  aunt 
always  hanging  over  me — 'ITow,  Jeremy  dear — '  ^Blow 
your  nose,  Jeremy  dear — '  'Wipe  your  feet,  Jeremy  dear.' 
Look  at  the  things  she  wears  and  the  way  she  walks.  If 
I  did  have  to  have  an  aunt  always  I'd  have  a  decent  one, 
not  an  old  clothes  bag." 

What  happened  to  Jeremy  at  the  moment?  Did  he 
recollect  that  only  a  few  hours  before  he  had  been  hating 
Aunt  Amy  with  a  fine  frenzy  of  hatred?  For  nearly  a 
week  he  had  been  chafing  under  her  restraint,  combating 
her  commands,  defying  her  orders.  He  had  been  seeing 
her  as  everything  that  the  Dean's  Ernest  had  but  now 
been  calling  her.  ISTow  he  only  saw  her  as  someone  to  be 
defended,  someone  who  was  his,  someone  even  who  de- 
pended on  him  for  support.  He  would  have  challenged  a 
whole  world  of  Deans  in  her  defence. 


156  JEREMY 

He  said  something,  but  no  one  could  hear  his  words; 
then  he  sprang  upon  the  startled  Ernest. 

It  was  not  a  very  distinguished  combat ;  it  was  Jeremy's 
first  battle,  and  he  knew  at  that  time  nothing  of  the 
science  of  fighting.  The  Dean's  Ernest,  in  spite  of  his 
term  at  school,  also  knew  nothing — and  the  Dean's  Ernest 
was  a  coward.  .  .  . 

It  lasted  but  a  short  while,  for  Mary,  after  the  first 
pause  of  horrified  amazement  (aware  only  that  Ernest  was 
twice  as  big  as  her  Jeremy),  ran  to  appeal  to  authority. 
Jeremy  himself  was  aware  neither  of  time  nor  prudence. 
He  realised  immediately  that  Ernest  was  a  coward,  and 
this  realisation  filled  him  with  joy  and  happiness.  He 
had  seized  Ernest  by  his  long  yellow  neck,  and,  with  his 
other  hand,  he  struck  at  eyes  and  cheeks  and  nose.  He  did 
not  secure  much  purchase  for  his  blows  because  their  bodies 
were  very  close  against  one  another,  but  he  felt  the  soft 
flesh  yield  and  suddenly  something  wet  against  his  hand 
which  must,  he  knew,  be  blood.  And  all  the  time  he  was 
thinking  to  himself:  ''I'll  teach  him  to  say  things  about 
Aunt  Amy!  Aunt  Amy's  mine!  I'll  teach  him!  He 
shan't  touch  Aunt  Amy!  He  shan't  touch  Aunt 
Amy!  .  .  ." 

Ernest  meanwhile  kicked  and  kicked  hard ;  he  also  tried 
to  bite  Jeremy's  hand  and  also  to  pull  his  hair.  But  his 
own  terror  handicapped  him ;  every  inch  of  his  body  was 
alarmed,  and  that  alarm  prevented  the  freedom  of  his 
limbs.  Then  when  he  felt  the  blood  from  his  nose  trickle 
on  to  his  cheek  his  resistance  was  at  an  end ;  panic  flooded 
over  him  like  water.  He  broke  away  and  flung  himself 
howling  on  to  the  ground,  kicking  his  legs  and  screaming: 


FAMILY  PRIDE  157 

"It  isn't  fair !  He's  bitten  me !  Take  him  away !  Take 
him  away!" 

Jeremy  himself  was  no  beautiful  sight.  His  hair  was 
wild,  his  white  navy  collar  crumpled  and  soiled,  the  buttons 
of  his  tunic  torn,  his  stocking  down,  and  his  legs  already 
displaying  purple  bruises.  But  he  did  not  care;  he  was 
well  now ;  he  was  no  longer  unhappy. 

He  had  beaten  Ernest  and  he  was  a  man ;  he  had  risen 
victorious  from  his  first  fight,  and  Authority  might  storm 
as  it  pleased.  Authority  soon  arrived,  and  there  were, 
of  course,  many  cries  and  exclamations.  Ernest  was  led 
away  still  howling ;  Jeremy,  stubborn,  obstinate,  and  silent, 
was  also  led  away.  ...  A  disgraceful  incident. 

Aunt  Amy,  of  course,  was  disgusted.  Couldn't  leave 
the  boy  alone  one  minute  but  he  must  misbehave  himself, 
upset  the  party,  be  the  little  ruffian  that  he  always  was. 
She  had  always  said  that  his  mother  spoiled  him,  and  here 
were  the  fruits  of  that  foolishness.  How  could  she  ever 
say  enough  to  Miss  Maddison?  Her  delightful  party 
completely  ruined !  .  .  .  Shocking !  .  .  .  Shocking !  .  .  . 
Too  terrible !  .  .  .  And  Ernest,  such  a  quiet,  well-behaved 
little  boy  as  a  rule.     It  must  have  been  Jeremy  who  .  .  . 

While  they  were  waiting  in  the  decent  dusk  of  Miss 
Maddison's  sitting-room  for  a  cleaned  and  chastened 
Jeremy,  Mary  touched  her  aunt's  arm  aud  whispered  in 
her  nervous  voice : 

"Aunt  Amy — Jeremy  hit  Ernest  because  he  said  rude 
things  about  you." 

"About  me!    ISTonsense,  child." 

"'No,  but  it  was,  really.  Ernest  said  horrid  things  about 
you,  and  then  Jeremy  hit  him." 

"About  me  ?    What  things  ?" 


158  JEKEMY 

''That  you  were  ugly,"  eagerly  continued  Mary — never 
a  tactful  child,  and  intent  now  only  upon  Jeremy's  repu- 
tation— "and  wore  ugly  clotlies  and  horrid  things.  He 
did  really.    I  heard  it  all." 

Aunt  Amy  was  deeply  moved.  Her  conceit,  her  abnor- 
mal all-embracing  conceit  was  wounded — yes,  even  by  so 
insignificant  a  creature  as  the  Dean's  Ernest,  but  she  was 
also  unexpectedly  touched.  She  would  have  greatly  pre- 
ferred not  to  be  touched,  but  there  it  was,  she  could  not 
help  herself.  She  did  not  know  that,  in  all  her  life  before, 
anyone  had  ever  fought  for  her,  and  that  now  of  all  cham- 
pions in  the  world  fate  should  have  chosen  Jeremy,  who 
was,  she  had  supposed,  her  enemy — ^never  her  defender! 

And  that  horrid  child  of  the  Dean — she  had  always 
disliked  him,  with  his  long  yellow  neck  and  watery  eyes ! 
How  dared  he  say  such  things  about  her !  He  had  always 
been  rude  to  her.     She  remembered  once 

Jeremy  arrived,  washed,  brushed,  and  obstinate.  He 
would,  of  course,  be  scolded  to  within  an  inch  of  his  life, 
and  he  did  not  care.  He  had  seen  the  Dean's  Ernest 
howling  and  kicking  on  the  ground ;  he  had  soiled  his 
straw  hat  for  him,  dirtied  his  stiff  white  collar  for  him, 
and  made  his  nose  bleed.  He  glared  at  his  aunt  (one  eye 
was  rapidly  disappearing  beneath  a  blue  bruise),  and  he 
was  proud,  triumphant,  and  very  tired. 

Farewells  were  made — again  many  apologies — "ISToth- 
ing,  I  assure  you,  nothing.  »Boys  will  be  boys,  I  know," 
from  Miss  Maddison. 

Then  they  were  seated  in  the  jingle,  Jeremy  next  to 
Aunt  Amy,  awaiting  his  scolding.  It  did  not  come.  Aunt 
Amy  tried;  she  knew  what  she  should  say.  She  should 
be  very  angry,  disgusted,  ashamed.    She  could  not  be  any 


FAMILY  PRIDE  159 

of  these  things.  That  horrid  boy  had  insulted  her.  She 
was  touched  and  proud  as  she  had  never  been  touched  and 
proud  in  her  life  before. 

Jeremy  waited,  and  then  as  nothing  came  his  weariness 
grew  upon  him.  As  the  old  fat  pony  jogged  along,  as  the 
evening  colours  of  street  and  sky  danced  before  him,  sleep 
came  nearer  and  nearer. 

He  nodded,  recovered,  nodded  and  nodded  again.  His 
body  pressed  closer  to  Aunt  Amy's,  leaned  against  her. 
His  head  rested  upon  her  shoulder. 

After  a  moment's  pause  she  put  her  arm  round  him — 
so,  holding  him,  she  stared,  defiantly  and  crossly,  upon  the 
world. 


CHAPTEE   VII 


EELIGION 


ALWAYS  in  after  years  Jeremy  remembered  that 
party  of  Miss  Maddison's,  not  because  it  had  been 
there  that  he  had  won  his  first  fight,  but  for  the  deeper 
reason  that  from  that  day  his  life  received  a  new  colour, 
woven  into  the  texture  of  it;  even  now  when  he  thinks 
of  those  hours  that  followed  Miss  Maddison's  party  he 
catches  his  breath  and  glances  around  him  to  see  whether 
everything  is  safe.  The  children,  on  arriving  home  that 
evening,  found  that  their  father  and  mother  had  already 
returned  from  Drymouth.  Jeremy,  sleepy  though  he  was, 
rushed  to  his  mother,  held  her  hand,  explained  his  black 
eye,  and  then  suddenly,  in  a  way  that  he  had,  fell  asleep, 
there  as  he  was,  and  had  to  be  carried  up  to  bed. 

When  he  awoke  next  morning  his  first  thought  was  of 
his  mother.  He  did  not  know  why ;  she  was  so  definitely 
part  of  the  background  of  his  daily  life  that  he  felt  too 
sure  of  her  continual  and  abiding  presence  to  need  delib- 
erate thought  of  her.  But  this  morning  he  wanted  to  get 
up  quickly  and  find  her.  Perhaps  her  absence  had  made 
him  feel  more  insecure,  but  there  had  also  been  something 
that  night,  something  in  her  face,  something  in  the  touch 
of  her  hand. 

And  the  other  thing  that  he  realised  was  that  summer 

160 


RELIGIOIT  161 

had  truly  come.  He  knew  at  once  that  hot  smell  that 
pressed  even  through  the  closed  window-panes  of  his  room ; 
the  bars  and  squares  of  light  on  the  floor  when  he  jumped 
out  of  bed  and  stood  upon  them  seemed  to  bum  the  soles 
of  his  feet,  and  the  rays  of  light  on  the  ceiling  quivered 
as  only  summer  sunlight  can  quiver.  The  two  windows  of 
his  bedroom  looked  back  behind  Polchester  over  fields  and 
hedges  to  a  dim  purple  line  of  wood.  A  tiny  stream  ran 
through  the  first  two  fields,  and  this  little  river  was 
shining  now  with  a  white  hot  light  that  had  yet  the  breeze 
of  the  morning  ruffling  it.  He  ran  to  his  window  and 
opened  it.  Beyond  the  wall  that  bordered  their  house 
was  a  little  brown  path,  and  down  this  path,  even  as  he 
watched,  a  company  of  cows  were  slowly  wandering  along. 
Already  they  were  flapping  their  ears  lazily  in  anticipa- 
tion of  the  flies,  and  the  boy  who  was  driving  them  was 
whistling  as  one  only  whistles  on  a  summer  morning.  He 
could  see  the  buttercups,  too,  in  the  nearest  field;  they 
seemed  to  have  sprung  to  life  in  the  space  of  a  night. 
Someone  was  pulling  the  rope  of  a  well  somewhere  and 
someone  else  was  pouring  water  out  upon  some  stone  court. 
Even  as  he  watched,  a  bee  came  blundering  up  to  his 
window,  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  whirring 
off  again,  and  through  all  the  sun  and  glitter  and  the 
sparkle  of  the  little  river  there  was  a  scent  of  pinks,  and 
mignonette,  and  even,  although  it  could  not  really  be  so, 
of  the  gorse.  The  sky  was  a  pale  white  blue,  so  pale 
that  it  was  scarcely  any  colour  at  all  and  a  few  puffs  of 
clouds,  dead  white  like  the  purest  smoke,  hovered  in  danc- 
ing procession,  above  the  purple  wood.  The  sun  burnt 
upon  his  bare  feet  and  his  head  and  his  hands. 

This  coming  of  summer  meant  so  much  more  to  him 


162  JEREIMY 

than  merely  the  immediate  joy  of  it — it  meant  Eafiel  and 
Cow  Farm  and  the  Cove  and  green  pools  with  crabs  in 
them,  and  shrimping  and  paddling  and  riding  home  in  the 
evening  on  haycarts,  and  drinking  milk  out  of  tin  cans, 
and  cows  and  small  pigs,  and  peeling  sticks  and  apples, 
and  collecting  shells,  and  fishermen's  nets,  and  sandwiches, 
and  saffron  buns  mixed  with  sand,  and  hot  ginger  beer, 
and  one's  ears  peeling  with  the  sun,  and  church  on  Sunday 
with  the  Rafiel  sheep  cropping  the  grass  just  outside  the 
church  door,  and  Dick  Marriott,  the  fisherman,  and  slip- 
ping along  over  the  green  water,  trailing  one's  fingers  in 
the  water,  in  his  boat,  and  fishy  smells  by  the  sea-wall, 
and  red  masses  of  dog-fish  on  the  pier,  and  the  still  cool 
feel  of  the  farmhouse  sheets  just  after  getting  into  bed — 
all  these  things  and  a  thousand  more  the  coming  of  sum- 
mer meant  to  Jeremy. 

But  this  morning  he  did  not  feel  his  customary  joy. 
Closing  his  window  and  dressing  slowly,  he  wondered 
what  was  the  matter.  What  could  it  be  ?  It  was  not  his 
eye — certainly  it  was  a  funny  colour  this  morning  and  it 
hurt  when  you  touched  it,  but  he  was  proud  of  that.  'No, 
it  was  not  his  eye.  And  it  was  not  the  dog,  who  came 
into  his  room,  after  scratching  on  the  door,  and  made  his 
usual  morning  pretence  of  having  come  for  any  other 
purpose  than  to  see  his  friend  and  master,  first  looking 
under  the  bed,  then  going  up  to  the  window  pretending 
to  gaze  out  of  it  (which  he  could  not  do),  barking,  then 
rolling  on  a  square  of  sunlit  carpet,  and,  after  that,  lying 
on  his  back,  his  legs  out  stiff,  his  ridiculous  "Imperial" 
pointed  and  ironical,  then  suddenly  turning,  with  a  twist 
on  his  legs,  rushing  at  last  up  to  Jeremy,  barking  at  him, 
laughing  at  him,  licking  him,  and  even  biting  his  stockings 


KELIGION"  163 

— last  of  all  seizing  a  bedroom  slipper  and  rushing  wildly 
into  the  schoolroom  with  it. 

JSTo,  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with, Hamlet.  iN'or 
was  there  anything  the  matter  with  Miss  Jones,  free, 
happily,  from  her  customary  neuralgia,  and  delighted  with 
the  new  number  of  the  Church  Times.  ]S[or  was  it  the 
breakfast,  which  to-day  included  bacon  and  strawberry 
jam.  ]^or,  finally,  was  it  Mary  or  Helen,  who,  pleased 
with  the  summer  weather  (and  Mary  additionally  pleased 
with  the  virtues  of  Lance  as  minutely  recorded  in  the 
second  volume  of  "The  Pillars  of  the  House"),  were  both 
in  the  most  amiable  of  tempers.  No,  it  must  be  something 
inside  Jeremy  himself. 

He  waited  until  the  end  of  breakfast  to  ask  his  question : 

"Can  I  go  and  see  Mother,  Miss  Jones?" 

Mary  and  Helen  looked  across  at  him  inquisitively. 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  your  mother  for  now,  Jeremy  ? 
You  always  see  her  at  twelve  o'clock."  Miss  Jones 
pushed  her  spectacles  lower  upon  her  nose  and  continued 
her  reading. 

"I  want  to." 

"Well,  you  can't  now." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  say  not — that's  enough." 

But  Jeremy  was  gentle  to-day.  He  got  off  his  chair, 
went  round  to  Miss  Jones's  chair,  and,  looking  up  at  her 
out  of  his  bruised  eye,  said  in  the  most  touching  voice : 

"But,  please.  Miss  Jones,  I  want  to.    I  really  do." 

Then  she  said  what  he  had  known  all  the  time  was 
coming : 

"I'm  afraid  you  won't  see  your  mother  to-day,  dear. 
She's  not  well.    She's  in  bed." 


164  JEREMY 

'^Why?    Is  she  ill?" 

''She's  tired  after  her  journey  yesterday,  I  expect." 

He  said  no  more. 

He  tried  during  the  whole  of  that  day  not  to  think  of 
his  mother,  and  he  found  that,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  he  could  do  nothing  else  but  think  of  her.  During 
the  morning  he  sat  very  silently  over  his  lessons,  did  all 
that  he  was  told,  did  not  once  kick  Mary  under  the  table, 
nor  ask  Miss  Jones  to  sharpen  his  pencil,  nor  make  faces 
at  Hamlet.  Once  or  twice,  in  a  way  that  he  had,  he 
leaned  his  head  on  his  hand  as  though  he  were  an  ancient 
professor  with  a  whole  library  of  great  works  behind  him, 
and  when  Miss  Jones  asked  him  whether  he  had  a  headache 
he  said:  "No,  thank  you,"  instead  of  seizing  on  the  won- 
derful opportunity  of  release  that  such  a  question  offered 
him.  When  they  all  went  for  a  walk  in  the  afternoon,  he 
sprang  for  a  moment  into  something  of  his  natural  vivacity. 
They  came  upon  a  thin,  ill-shaven  tramp  dressed  as  a 
sailor,  with  a  patch  over  one  eye,  producing  terrible  dis- 
cordance from  a  fiddle.  This  individual  held  in  one  hand 
a  black  tin  cup,  and  at  his  side  crouched  a  mongrel  terrier, 
whose  beaten  and  dishevelled  appearance  created  at  oncd 
hopes  in  the  breast  of  the  flamboyant  Hamlet.  This  couple 
were  posted  just  outside  Mr.  Poole's  second-hand  book- 
shop, close  to  the  "2d."  box,  and  for  a  moment  Jeremy 
was  enthralled.  He  wanted  to  give  the  hero  his  week's 
penny,  and  upon  finding  that  his  week's  penny  was  not, 
owing  to  sweet  purchases  on  the  previous  day,  he  began 
elaborate  bargainings  with  Miss  Jones  as  to  the  forestalling 
of  future  pennies.  Meanwhile,  Hamlet  leapt,  with  every 
sign  of  joyful  expectation,  upon  the  pauper  dog;  the  blind 
sailor  began  to  hit  wildly  about  with  his  stick,  Mr.  Poole's 


EELIGI0:N'  165 

"2d."  box  was  upset,  and  the  sailor's  black  patch  fell  oflF, 
revealing  him  as  the  possessor  of  two  beautiful  eyes,  just 
like  any  other  gentleman,  and  a  fine,  vigorous  stock  of  the 
best  Glebeshire  profanities.  Mr.  Poole,  an  irascible  old 
man,  himself  came  out,  a  policeman  approached,  two  old 
ladies  from  the  Close,  well  known  to  Jeremy,  were  shocked 
by  the  tramp,  and  the  Cathedral  bell,  as  though  it  had 
just  awoken  up  to  its  real  responsibilities,  suddenly  began 
to  ring. 

All  this  was,  of  course,  delightful  to  Jeremy,  and  offered 
so  many  possible  veins  of  interest  that  he  could  have  stayed 
there  for  hours.  He  wanted  very  badly  to  ask  the  sailor 
why  he  covered  up  a  perfectly  wholesome  eye  with  a  black 
patch,  and  he  would  have  liked  to  see  what  Hamlet 
could  do  in  the  direction  of  eating  up  the  scattered  rem- 
nants of  Mr.  Poole's  "2d."  box;  but  he  was  dragged  away 
by  the  agitated  hand  of  Miss  Jones,  having  to  console  him- 
self finally  with  a  wink  from  the  august  policeman,  who,, 
known  throughout  Polchester  as  Tom  Noddy,  was  a  kindly 
soul  and  liked  gentlemanly  little  boys,  but  persecuted  the 
street  sort. 

For  a  moment  this  exciting  adventure  carried  him  away, 
and  he  even  listened  for  a  minute  or  two  to  Mary,  who,, 
seizing  her  opportunity,  began  hurriedly:  "Once  upon  a 
time  there  lived  a  sailor,  very  thin,  and  he  never  washed, 
and  he  had  a  dog  and  a  violin "  But  soon  he  remem- 
bered, and  sighed  and  said:  "Oh,  bother,  Mary!"  and 
then  walked  on  by  himself.  And  still,  all  through  that 
hot  afternoon,  when  even  the  Rope  Walk  did  not  offer  any 
shade,  and  when  the  Pol  was  of  so  clear  a  colour  that  you 
could  see  trout  and  emerald  stones  and  golden  sand  as 
under  glass,  and  when  Hamlet  was  compelled  to  run  ahead 


166  JEREMY 

and  find  a  piece  of  shade  and  lie  there  stretched,  panting, 
with  his  tongue  out,  until  thej  came  up  to  him — even  all 
these  signs  of  a  true  and  marvellous  summer  did  not 
relieve  Jeremy  of  his  burden.  Something  horrible  was 
going  to  happen.  He  knew  it  with  such  certainty  that  he 
wondered  how  Mary  and  Helen  could  be  so  gaily  light- 
hearted,  and  despised  them  for  their  carelessness.  This 
was  connected  in  some  way  with  the  hot  weather ;  he  felt 
as  though,  were  a  cold  breeze  suddenly  to  come,  and  rain 
to  fall,  he  would  be  happy  again.  There  had  been  once 
a  boy,  older  than  he,  called  Jimmy  Bain,  a  fat,  plump 
boy,  who  had  lived  next  door  to  the  Coles.  Whenever  he 
had  the  opportunity  he  bullied  Jeremy,  pinching  his 
arms,  putting  pins  into  his  legs,  and  shouting  suddenly  into 
his  ears.  Jeremy,  who  had  feared  Johnny  Bain,  had 
always  "felt"  the  stout  youth's  arrival  before  he  ap- 
peared. The  sky  had  seemed  to  darken,  the  air  to  thicken, 
the  birds  to  gather  in  the  "rooky"  wood. 

He  had  trembled  and  shaken,  his  teeth  had  chattered 
and  his  throat  grown  dry  for  no  reason  at  all.  As  he  had 
once  felt  about  Johnny  jBain  so  now  he  felt  about  life 
in  general.  Something  horrible  was  going  to  happen.  .  .  . 
Something  to  do  with  Mother.  ...  As  he  came  up  the 
road  to  their  house  his  heart  beat  so  that  he  could  not 
hear  his  own  steps. 

n 

They  entered  the  house,  and  at  once  even  Mary,  pre- 
occupied as  she  was  with  her  story  about  the  sailor,  noticed 
that  something  was  wrong. 

"Eose!    Rose!"  she  called  out  loudly. 

"Hush !"  said  Miss  Jones.    "You  must  be  quiet,  dear." 


RELIGION"  167 

"Why  ?"  said  Mary.     ''I  want  Rose  to " 

"Your  mother  isn't  at  all  well,  dear.     I " 

And  she  was  interrupted  by  Rose,  who,  coming  suddenly 
downstairs,  with  a  face  very  different  from  her  usual 
cheerful  one,  said  something  to  Miss  Jones  in  a  low  voice. 

Miss  Jones  gave  a  little  cry:  "So  soon?  ...  A  girl. 
.  .  ."  And  then  added :    "How  is  she  ?" 

Then  Rose  said  something  more,  which  the  children 
could  not  catch,  and  vanished. 

"Very  quietly,  children,"  said  Miss  Jones,  in  a  voice 
that  trembled ;  "and  you  mustn't  leave  the  schoolroom  till 

I  tell  you.     Your  mother "     She  broke  off  as  though 

she  were  afraid  of  showing  emotion. 

"What  is  it  ?"  said  Jeremy  in  a  voice  that  seemed  new 
to  them  all — older,  more  resolute,  strangely  challenging 
for  so  small  a  boy. 

"Your  mother's  very  ill,  Jeremy,  dear.  You  must  be  a 
very  good  boy,  and  help  your  sisters." 

"Mightn't  I  go  for  just  a  minute?" 

"No,  certainly  not." 

They  all  went  upstairs.  Then,  in  the  schoolroom.  Miss 
Jones  said  an  amazing  thing.     She  said : 

"I  must  tell  you  all,  children,  that  youVe  got  a  new 
little  sister." 

"A  new  sister!"  screamed  Mary. 

Helen  said :  "Oh,  Miss  Jones !" 

Jeremy  said:  "What  did  she  come  for  just  now,  when 
Mother  is  ill  ?" 

"God  wanted  her  to  come,  dear,"  said  Miss  Jones.  "You 
must  all  be  very  kind  to  her,  and  do  all  you  can " 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  torrent  of  questions  from  the 
two  girls.     What  was  she  like?     What  was  her  name 3 


168  JEREMY 

Could  slie  walk  ?  Where  did  she  come  from  ?  Did  Father 
and  Mother  find  her  in  Drymouth  ?  And  so  on.  Jeremy 
was  silent.  At  last  he  said:  "We  don't  want  any  more 
girls  here." 

"Better  than  having  another  boy,"  said  Helen. 

But  he  would  not  take  up  the  challenge.  He  sat  on 
his  favourite  seat  on  the  window-ledge,  dragged  up  a 
reluctant  Hamlet  to  sit  with  him,  and  gazed  out  down 
into  the  garden  that  was  misty  now  in  the  evening  golden 
light,  the  trees  and  the  soil  black  beneath  the  gold,  the 
rooks  slowly  swinging  across  the  sky  above  the  farther  side 
of  the  road.  Hamlet  wriggled.  He  always  detested  that 
he  should  be  cuddled,  and  he  would  press  first  with  one 
leg,  then  with  another,  against  Jeremy's  coat;  then  he 
would  lie  dead  for  a  moment,  suddenly  springing,  with 
his  head  up,  in  the  hope  that  the  surprise  would  free  him ; 
then  he  would  turn  into  a  snake,  twisting  his  body  under 
Jeremy's  arm,  and  dropping  with  a  flop  on  to  the  floor. 
All  these  manoeuvres  to-day  availed  him  nothing;  Jeremy 
held  his  neck  in  a  vice,  and  dug  his  fingers  well  into  the 
skin.  Hamlet  whined,  then  lay  still,  and,  in  the  midst 
of  indignant  reflections  against  the  imbecile  tyrannies  of 
man,  fell,  to  his  own  surprise,  asleep. 

Jeremy  sat  there  whilst  the  dusk  fell  and  all  the  beauti- 
ful lights  were  drawn  from  the  sky  and  the  rooks  went  to 
bed.  Rose  came  to  draw  the  curtains,  and  then  he  left  his 
window-seat,  dragged  out  his  toy  village  and  pretended 
to  play  with  it.  He  looked  at  his  sisters.  They  seemed 
quite  tranquil.  Helen  was  sewing,  and  Mary  deep  in 
"The  Pillars  of  the  House."  The  clock  ticked.  Hamlet, 
lost  in  sleep,  snored  and  sputtered ;  the  whole  world  pur- 
sued its  ordinary  way.     Only  in  himself  something  was 


EELIGIOIT  169 

changed;  he  was  unhappy,  and  he  could  not  account  for 
his  unhappiness.  It  should  have  been  because  his  mother 
was  ill,  and  yet  she  had  been  ill  before,  and  he  had  been 
only  disturbed  for  a  moment.  After  all,  grown-up  people 
always  got  well.  There  had  been  Aunt  Amy,  who  had 
had  measles,  and  the  wife  of  the  Dean,  who  had  had  some- 
thing, and  even  the  Bishop  once.  .  .  .  But  now  he  was 
frightened.  There  was  some  perception,  coming  to  him 
now  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  that  this  world  was  not 
absolutely  stable — that  people  left  it,  people  came  into  it, 
that  there  was  change  and  danger  and  something  stronger. 
.  .  .  Gradually  this  perception  was  approaching  him  as 
though  it  had  been  some  dark  figure  who  had  entered  the 
house,  and  now,  with  muffled  step  and  veiled  face,  was 
slowly  climbing  the  stairs  towards  him.  He  only  knew 
that  his  mother  could  not  go ;  she  could  not  go.  She  was 
part  of  his  life,  and  she  would  always  be  so.  Why,  now, 
when  he  thought  of  it,  he  could  do  nothing  without  his 
mother;  every  day  he  must  tell  her  what  he  had  done 
and  what  he  was  going  to  do,  must  show  her  what  he  had 
acquired  and  must  explain  to  her  what  he  had  lost,  must 
go  to  her  when  he  was  hurt  and  when  he  was  frightened 
and  when  he  was  glad.  .  .  .  And  of  all  these  things  he 
had  never  even  thought  until  now. 

As  he  sat  there  the  house  seemed  to  grow  ever  quieter 
and  quieter  about  him.  He  felt  as  though  he  would  have 
liked  to  have  gone  to  the  schoolroom  door  and  listened. 
It  was  terrible  imagining  the  house  behind  the  door — 
quite  silent — so  that  the  clocks  had  stopped,  and  no  one 
walked  upon  the  stairs  and  no  one  laughed  down  in  the 
pantry.     lie  wished  that  they  would  make  more  noise  in 


170  JEREMY 

the  schoolroom.  He  upset  the  church  and  the  orchard  and 
Mrs.  Xoah. 

But  the  silence  after  the  noise  was  worse  than  ever. 

Soon  Miss  Jones  took  the  two  girls  away  to  her  room  to 
fit  on  some  clothes,  an  operation  which  Helen  adored  and 
Mary  hated.  Jeremy  was  left  alone,  and  he  was,  at  once, 
terribly  frightened.  He  knew  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  be 
frightened,  and  he  tried  to  go  on  with  his  game,  putting 
the  church  with  the  apple  trees  around  it  and  the  l^oah 
family  all  sleeping  under  the  trees,  but  at  every  moment 
something  compelled  him  to  raise  his  head  and  see  that  no 
one  was  there,  and  he  felt  so  small  and  so  lonely  that  he 
would  like  to  have  hidden  under  something. 

Then  when  he  thought  of  his  mother  all  alone  and  the 
house  so  quiet  around  her  and  no  one  able  to  go  to  her  he 
felt  so  miserable  that  he  turned  round  from  his  village  and 
stared  desolately  into  the  fireplace.  The  thought  of  his 
new  sister  came  to  him,  but  was  dismissed  impatiently.  He 
did  not  want  a  new  sister — Mary  and  Helen  were  trouble 
enough  as  it  was — and  he  felt,  with  an  old  weary  air,  that 
it  was  time,  indeed,  that  he  was  off  to  school.  iSTothing 
was  the  same.     Always  new  people.     ITever  any  peace. 

He  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  the  opening  door,  and, 
turning,  saw  his  father.  His  father  and  he  were  never 
very  easy  together.  Mr.  Cole  had  very  little  time  for  the 
individual,  being  engaged  in  saving  souls  in  the  mass,  and 
his  cheery,  good-tempered  Christianity  had  a  strange, 
startling  fashion  of  proving  unavailing  before  some  single 
human  case. 

He  did  not  understand  children  excepc  when  they  were 
placed  in  masses  before  him.  His  own  children,  having 
been  named,  on  their  arrival,  "Gifts  from  God,"  had  kept 


EELIGION  171 

mucli  of  that  incorporeal  atmospbere  throughout  their 
growing  years. 

But  to-night  he  was  a  different  man.  As  he  looked  at 
his  small  son  across  the  schoolroom  floor  there  was  terror 
in  his  eyes.  JSTothing  could  have  been  easier  or  more 
simple  than  his  lifelong  assumption  that,  because  God 
was  in  His  heaven  all  was  right  with  the  world.  lie  had 
given  thanks  every  evening  for  the  blessings  that  he  had 
received  and  every  morning  for  the  blessings  that  he  was 
going  to  receive,  and  he  had  had  no  reason  to  complain. 
He  had  the  wife,  the  children,  the  work  that  he  deserved, 
and  his  life  had  been  so  hemmed  in  with  security  that  he 
had  had  no  difficulty  in  assuring  his  congregation  on  every 
possible  occasion  that  God  was  good  and  far-seeing,  and 
that  "not  one  sparrow  .  .  ." 

And  now  he  was  threatened — threatened  most  desper- 
ately. Mrs.  Cole  was  so  ill  that  it  was  doubtful  whether 
she  would  live  through  the  night.  He  was  completely 
helpless.  He  had  turned  from  one  side  to  another,  simply 
demanding  an  assurance  from  someone  or  something  that 
she  could  not  be  taken  from  him.  Xo  one  could  give  him 
that  assurance.  Life  without  her  would  be  impossible ;  he 
would  not  know  what  to  do  about  the  simplest  matter. 
Life  without  her  ...  oh!  but  it  was  incredible! 

Like  a  blind  man  he  had  groped  his  way  up  to  the  school- 
room. He  did  not  want  to  see  the  children,  nor  Miss 
Jones,  but  he  must  be  moving,  must  be  doing  something 
that  would  break  in  upon  that  terrible  ominous  pause  that 
the  whole  world  seemed  to  him,  at  this  moment,  to  be 
making. 

Then  he  saw  Jeremy.     He  said : 


172  JEEEMY 

''Oh !    Where's  Miss  Jones  ?" 

"She's  in  the  next  room/'  said  Jeremy,  looking  at  his 
father. 

'"Oh !''  lie  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  schoolroom. 
Jeremy  left  his  toy  village  and  stood  up. 

"Is  Mother  better,  Father  ?" 

He  stopped  in  his  walk  and  looked  at  the  boy  as  though 
he  were  trying  to  recollect  who  he  was. 

"]N'o.  .  .  .  :N"o— that  is— No,  my  boy,  I'm  afraid  not." 

"Is  she  very  bad,  Father — like  the  Dean's  wife  when 
she  had  fever  ?" 

His  father  didn't  answer.  He  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
room,  then  turned  suddenly  as  though  he  had  seen  some- 
thing there  that  terrified  him,  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

Jeremy,  suddenly  left  alone,  had  a  desperate  impulse 
to  scream  that  someone  must  come,  that  he  was  frightened, 
that  something  horrible  was  in  the  house.  He  stood  up, 
staring  at  the  closed  door,  his  face  white,  his  eyes  large 
and  full  of  fear.  Then  he  flung  himself  down  by  Hamlet 
and,  taking  him  by  the  neck,  whispered : 

"I'm  frightened  !  I'm  frightened !  Bark  or  something ! 
.  .  .  There's  someone  here!" 


in 


'Next  morning  Mrs.  Cole  was  still  alive.  There  had  been 
no  change  during  the  night ;  to-day,  the  doctor  said,  would 
be  the  critical  day.  To-day  was  Sunday,  and  Mr.  Cole 
took  his  morning  service  at  his  church  as  usual.  He  had 
been  up  all  night ;  he  looked  haggard  and  pale,  still  wearing 
that  expression  as  of  a  man  lost  in  a  world  that  he  had 
always  trusted.    But  he  would  not  fail  in  his  duty.  "When 


RELIGION  173 

two  or  three  are  gathered  together  in  my  name.  .  .  ." 
Perhaps  God  would  hear  him. 

It  was  a  day  of  wonderful  heat  for  May.  ISTo  one  had 
ever  remembered  so  hot  a  day  at  so  early  a  time  of  year. 
The  windows  of  the  church  were  open,  but  no  breeze  blew 
through  the  aisles.  The  relentless  blazing  blue  of  the  sky 
penetrated  into  the  cool  shadows  of  the  church,  and  it 
was  as  though  the  congregation  sat  there  under  shimmer- 
ing glass.  The  waves  of  light  shifted,  rose  and  fell  above 
the  bonnets  and  hats  and  bare  heads,  and  all  the  little 
choir  boys  fell  asleep  during  the  sermon. 

The  Cole  family  did  not  fall  asleep.  They  sat  with 
pale  faces  and  stiff  backs  staring  at  their  father  and  think- 
ing about  their  mother.  Mary  and  Helen  were  frightened ; 
the  house  was  so  strange,  everyone  spoke  in  whispers,  and, 
on  the  way  into  church,  many  ladies  had  asked  them  how 
their  mother  was. 

They  felt  important  as  well  as  sad.  But  Jeremy  did 
not  feel  important.  He  had  not  heard  the  ladies  and  their 
questions — he  would  not  have  cared  if  he  had.  People 
had  always  called  him  "a  queer  little  boy,"  simply  because 
he  was  independent  and  thought  more  than  he  spoke. 
Nevertheless,  he  had  always  in  reality  been  normal  enough 
until  now.  To-day  he  was  really  "queer,"  was  conscious 
for  the  first  time  of  the  existence  of  a  world  whose  adja- 
cence  to  the  real  world  was,  in  after  days,  to  trouble  him 
so  often  and  to  complicate  life  for  him  so  grievously. 
The  terror  that  had  come  down  upon  him  when  his  father 
had  left  him  seemed  to-day  utterly  to  soak  through  into  the 
very  heart  of  him.  His  mother  was  going  to  die  unless 
something  or  somebody  saved  her.  What  was  dying  ?  Go- 
ing away,  he  had  always  been  told,  with  a  golden  harp,  to 


174  JEREMY 

sing  hymns  in  a  foreign  country.  But  to-day  the  picture 
would  not  form  so  easily.  There  was  silence  and  darkness 
and  confusion  about  this  Death.  His  mother  was  going, 
against  her  will,  and  no  one  could  tell  him  whither  she 
was  going.  If  he  could  only  stop  her  dying,  force  God 
to  leave  her  alone,  to  leave  her  with  them  all  as  she  had 
been  before.  .  .  . 

He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  his  father,  who  climbed  slowly 
into  his  pulpit  and  gave  out  the  text  of  his  sermon.  To-day 
he  would  talk  about  the  sacrifice  of  Isaac.  "Abraham,  as 
his  hearers  would  remember  .  .  ."  and  so  on. 

Jeremy  listened,  and  gi'adually  there  grew  before  his 
eyes  the  figure  of  a  strange  and  terrible  God.  This  was 
no  new  fig-ure.  He  had  never  thought  directly  about  God, 
but  for  a  very  long  time  now  he  had  had  Him  in  the 
backgi'ound  of  his  life  as  Polchester  Town  HaU  was  in 
the  background.  But  now  he  definitely  and  actively  figured 
to  himself  this  God,  this  God  Who  was  taking  his  mother 
away  and  was  intending  apparently  to  put  her  into  some 
dark  place  where  she  would  know  nobody.  It  must  be 
some  horrible  place,  because  his  father  looked  so  fright- 
ened, which  he  would  not  look  if  his  mother  was  simply 
going,  with  a  golden  harp,  to  sing  hymns.  Jeremy  had 
always  heard  that  this  God  was  loving  and  kind  and  tender, 
but  the  figure  whom  his  father  was  now  drawing  for  the 
benefit  of  the  congregation  was  none  of  these  things. 

Mr.  Cole  spoke  of  a  God  just  and  terrible,  but  a  God 
Who  apparently  for  the  merest  fancy  put  His  faithful 
servant  to  terrible  anguish  and  distress,  and  then  for  an- 
other fancy,  as  light  as  the  first,  spared  him  his  sorrow. 
Mr.  Cole  emphasised  the  necessity  for  obedience,  the  need 
for  a  willing  surrender  of  anything  that  may  be  dear  to 


KELIGI0:N'  175 

us,  "because  the  love  of  God  must  be  greater  than  anything 
that  holds  us  here  on  earth."  But  Jeremy  did  not  listen 
to  these  remarks ;  his  mind  was  filled  with  this  picture  of 
a  vast  shadowy  figure,  seated  in  the  sky,  his  white  beard 
flowing  beneath  eyes  that  frowned  from  dark  rocky  eye- 
brows out  upon  people  like  Jeremy  who,  although  doing 
their  best,  were  nevertheless  at  the  mercy  of  any  whim 
that  He  might  have.  This  terrible  figure  was  the  author 
of  the  hot  day,  author  of  the  silent  house  and  the  shimmer- 
ing darkened  church,  author  of  the  decision  to  take  his 
mother  away  from  all  that  she  loved  and  put  her  some- 
where where  she  would  be  alone  and  cold  and  silent — ■ 
"simply  because  He  wishes.  .  .  ." 

"From  this  beautiful  passage,"  concluded  Mr.  Cole, 
"we  learn  that  God  is  just  and  merciful,  but  that  He 
demands  our  obedience.  We  must  be  ready  at  any  instant 
to  give  up  what  we  love  most  and  best.  .  .  ." 

Afterwards  they  all  trooped  out  into  the  splendid 
sunshine. 

IV 

There  was  a  horrible  Sunday  dinner  when — the  silence 
and  the  roast  beef  and  Yorkshire  pudding,  and  the  dining- 
room  quivering  with  heat,  emphasised  every  minute  of  the 
solemn  ticking  clock — Mary  suddenly  burst  into  tears, 
choked  over  a  glass  of  water,  and  was  led  from  the  room. 
Jeremy  ate  his  beef  and  rice  pudding  in  silence,  except 
that  once  or  twice  in  a  low,  hoarse  voice  whispered :  "Pass 
the  mustard,  please,"  or  "Pass  the  salt,  please."  Miss 
Jones,  watching  his  white  face  and  the  tremble  of  his  upper 
lip,  longed  to  say  something  to  comfort  him,  but  wisely 
held  her  peace. 


176  JEKEMY 

After  dinner  Jeremy  collected  Hamlet  and  went  to  the 
conservatory.  This,  like  so  many  other  English  conserva- 
tories, was  a  desolate  and  desperate  little  place,  where 
boxes  of  sand,  dry  corded-looking  bulbs,  and  an  unhappy 
plant  or  two  languished,  forgotten  and  forlorn.  It  had 
been  inherited  with  the  house  many  years  ago,  and,  at 
first,  the  Coles  had  had  the  ambition  to  make  it  blaze  with 
colour,  to  grow  there  the  most  marvellous  grapes,  the  rich- 
est tomatoes,  and  even — although  it  was  a  little  out  of 
place  in  the  house  of  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land— the  most  sinister  of  orchids.  Very  quickly  the  little 
conservatory  had  been  abandoned;  the  heating  apparatus 
had  failed,  the  plants  had  refused  to  grow,  the  tomatoes 
never  appeared,  the  bulbs  would  not  burst  into  colour. 

Eor  Jeremy  the  place  had  had  always  an  indescribable 
fascination.  When  he  was  very  young  there  had  been 
absolute  trust  that  things  would  grow;  that  every  kind  of 
wonder  might  spring  before  one's  eyes  at  any  moment  of 
the  day.  Then,  when  no  wonder  came,  there  had  been  the 
thrill  of  the  empty  boxes  of  earth ;  the  probing  with  one's 
fingers  to  see  what  the  funny-looking  bulbs  would  be,  and 
watching  the  fronds  of  the  pale  vine.  Afterwards,  there 
was  another  fascination — the  fascination  of  some  strange 
and  sinister  atmosphere  that  he  was  much  too  young  to 
define.  The  place,  he  knew,  was  different  from  the  rest  of 
the  house.  It  projected,  conventionally  enough,  from  the 
drawing-room ;  but  the  heavy  door  with  thick  windows  of 
red  glass  shut  it  off  from  the  whole  world.  Its  rather 
dirty  and  obscure  windows  looked  over  the  same  country 
that  Jeremy's  bedroom  window  commanded.  It  also 
caught  all  the  sun,  so  that  in  the  summer  it  was  terribly 
hot.     But  Jeremy  loved  the  heat.     He  was  discovered 


KELIGION"  177 

once  by  tlie  scandalised  Jampot  quite  naked  dancing  on 
the  wooden  boards,  his  face  and  hands  black  with  grime. 
1^0  one  could  ever  understand  "what  he  saw  in  the  dirty 
place,"  and  at  one  time  he  had  been  forbidden  to  go  there. 
Then  he  had  cried  and  stamped  and  shouted,  so  that  he 
had  been  allowed  to  return.  Amongst  the  things  that  he 
saw  there  were  the  reflections  that  the  outside  world  made 
.  ocn  the  glass ;  it  would  be  stained,  sometimes,  with  a 
stranpe,  green  reflection  of  the  fields  beyond  the  wall; 
sometimes  it  would  catch  the  blue  of  the  sky,  or  the  red 
and  gold  of  the  setting  sun;  sometimes  it  would  be  grey 
with  waving  shadows  across  its  surface,  as  though  one 
were  under  water.  Through  the  dirty  windows  the  coun- 
try, on  fine  days,  shone  like  distant  tapestry,  and  in  the 
glass  that  covered  the  farther  side  of  the  place  strange 
reflections  were  caught:  of  cows,  horses,  walls,  and  trees 
— as  though  in  a  kind  of  magic  mirror. 

Another  thing  that  Jeremy  felt  there,  was  that  he  was 
in  a  glass  cage  swinging  over  the  whole  world.  If  one 
shut  one's  eyes  one  could  easily  fancy  that  one  was  swing- 
ing out — swinging — swinging,  and  that,  suddenly  perhaps, 
the  cage  would  be  detached  from  the  house  and  go  sailing, 
like  a  magic  carpet,  to  Arabia  and  Persia,  and  anywhere 
you  pleased  to  command. 

To-day  the  glass  burnt  like  fire,  and  the  green  fields 
came  floating  up  to  be  transfigured  there  like  running 
water.  The  house  was  utterly  still;  the  red  glass  door 
ehut  off  the  world.  Jeremy  sat,  his  arms  tightly  round 
Hamlet's  neck,  on  the  dirty  floor,  a  strange  mixture  of 
misery,  weariness,  fright,  and  anger.  There  was  already 
in  him  a  strain  of  impatience,  so  that  he  could  not  bear 
simply  to  sit  down  and  bewail  something  as,  for  instance. 


178  JEREMY 

both  his  sisters  were  doing  at  this  moment.  He  must 
act.  They  could  not  be  happy  without  their  mother;  he 
himself  wanted  her  so  badly  that  even  now,  there  in  the 
flaming  conservatory,  if  he  had  allowed  himself  to  do  such 
a  thing,  he  would  have  sat  and  cried  and  cried  and  cried. 
Eut  he  was  not  going  to  cry.  Mary  and  Helen  could  cry 
— they  were  girls ;  he  was  going  to  do  something. 

As  he  sat  there,  getting  hotter  and  hotter,  there  grew, 
larger  and  larger  before  his  eyes,  the  figure  of  Terrible 
God.  That  image  of  Someone  of  a  vast  size  sitting  in  the 
red-hot  sky,  his  white  beard  flowing,  his  eyes  frowning, 
grew  ever  more  and  more  awful.  Jeremy  stared  up  into 
the  glass,  his  eyes  blinking,  the  sweat  beginning  to  pour 
down  his  nose,  and  yet  his  body  shivering  with  terror.  But 
he  had  strung  himself  up  to  meet  Him.  Somehow  he  was 
going  to  save  his  mother  and  hinder  her  departure.  At 
an  instant,  inside  him,  he  was  crying :  "I  want  my  mother ! 
I  want  my  mother!"  like  a  little  boy  who  had  been  left 
in  the  street,  and  at  the  other,  "You  shan't  have  her! 
You  shan't  have  her!"  as  though  someone  were  trying  to 
steal  his  Toy-Village  or  Hamlet  away  from  him.  His 
sleepy,  bemused,  heated  brain  wandered,  in  dazed  fashion, 
back  to  his  father's  sermon  of  that  morning.  Abraham 
and  Isaac !    Abraham  and  Isaac ! 

Abraham  and  Isaac!  Suddenly,  as  though  through! 
the  flaming  glass  something  had  been  flung  to  him,  an 
idea  came.  Perhaps  God,  that  huge,  ugly  God  was  teasing 
the  Coles  just  as  once  He  had  teased  Abraham.  Perhaps 
He  wished  to  see  whether  they  were  truly  obedient  as 
the  Jampot  had  sometimes  wished  in  the  old  days.  He 
was  only,  it  might  be,  pretending.  Perhaps  He  was 
demanding  that  one  of  them  should  give  up  something — 


KELIGION"  179 

something  of  great  value.     Even  Jeremy,  himself!  .  .  . 

If  he  had  to  sacrifice  something  to  save  his  mother, 
what  would  be  the  hardest  sacrifice  ?  Would  it  be  his  Toy- 
Village,  or  Mary  or  Helen,  or  his  soldiers,  or  his  paint- 
box, or  his  gold  fish  that  he  had  in  a  bowl,  or No, 

of  course,  he  had  known  from  the  first  what  would  be 
hardest — it  would,  of  course,  be  Hamlet. 

At  this  stage  in  his  thinking  he  removed  his  arm  from 
Hamlet's  neck  and  looked  at  the  animal.  At  the  same 
moment  the  light  that  had  filled  the  glass-house  with  a 
fiery  radiance  that  burnt  to  the  very  heart  of  the  place 
was  clouded.  Above,  in  the  sky,  black,  smoky  clouds, 
rolling  in  fold  after  fold,  as  though  some  demon  were 
flinging  them  out  across  the  sky  as  one  flings  a  carpet, 
piled  up  and  up,  each  one  darker  than  the  last.  The  light 
vanished ;  the  conservatory  was  filled  with  a  thick,  murky 
glow,  and  far  across  the  fields,  from  the  heart  of  the  black 
wood,  came  the  low  rumble  of  thunder.  But  Jeremy  did 
not  hear  that ;  he  was  busy  with  his  thoughts.  He  stared 
at  the  dog,  who  was  lying  stretched  out  on  the  dirty  floor, 
his  nose  between  his  toes.  It  cannot  truthfully  be  said 
that  the  resolve  that  was  forming  in  Jeremy's  head  had  its 
birth  in  any  fine,  noble  idealisms.  It  was  as  though  some 
bully,  seizing  his  best  marbles,  had  said:  "I'll  give  you 
these  back  if  you  hand  over  this  week's  pocket-money!" 
His  attitude  to  the  bully  could  not  truthfully  be  described 
as  one  of  homage  or  reverence ;  rather  was  it  one  of  anger 
and  impotent  rebellion. 

He  loved  Hamlet,  and  he  loved  his  mother  more  than 
Hamlet ;  but  he  was  not  moved  by  sentiment.  Grimly,  his 
legs  apart,  his  eyes  shut  tight,  as  they  were  when  he  said 
his  prayers,  he  made  his  challenge. 


180  JEKEMY 

"I'll  give  you  Hamlet  if  you  don't  take  Mother " 

A  pause.  "Only  I  can't  cut  Hamlet's  throat.  But  I  could 
lose  him,  if  that  would  do.  .  .  .  Only  you  must  take  him 
now — I  couldn't  do  it  to-morrow."  His  voice  began  to 
tremble.  He  was  frightened.  He  could  feel  behind  his 
closed  eyes  that  the  darkness  had  gathered.  The  place 
seemed  to  be  filled  with  rolling  smoke,  and  the  house  was 
so  terribly  still ! 

He  said  again:  "You  can  take  Hamlet.  He's  my  best 
thing.    You  can — You  can " 

There  followed  then,  with  the  promptitude  of  a  most 
admirably  managed  theatrical  climax,  a  peal  of  thunder 
that  seemed  to  strike  the  house  with  the  iron  hand  of  a 
giant.  Two  more  came,  and  then,  for  a  second,  a  silence, 
more  deadly  than  all  the  earlier  havoc. 

Jeremy  felt  that  God  had  leapt  upon  him.  He  opened 
his  eyes,  turned  as  though  to  run,  and  then  saw,  with  a 
freezing  check  upon  the  very  beat  of  his  heart,  that  Hamlet 
was  gone. 


There  was  no  Hamlet! 

In  that  second  of  frantic  unreasoning  terror  he  received 
a  conviction  of  God  that  no  rationalistic  training  in  later 
years  was  able  to  remove. 

There  was  no  Hamlet ! — only  the  dusky  dirty  place  with 
a  black  torrent-driven  world  beyond  it.  With  a  rush  as 
of  a  thousand  whips  slashing  the  air,  the  rain  came  down 
upon  the  glass.  Jeremy  turned,  crying  "Mother!  Mother! 
I  want  Mother !"  and  flung  himself  at  the  red  glass  doors ; 
fumbling  in  his  terror  for  the  handle,  he  felt  as  though 
the  end  of  the  world  had  come;  such  a  panic  had  seized 


EELIGION  181 

him  as  only  belongs  to  the  most  desperate  of  nightmares. 
God  had  answered  him.  Hamlet  was  gone  and  in  a  moment 
Jeremy  himself  might  be  seized.  .  .  . 

He  felt  frantically  for  the  door ;  he  beat  upon  the  glass. 

He  cried ''Mother !   Mother!   Mother!" 

He  had  found  the  door,  but  just  as  he  turned  the  handle 
he  was  aware  of  a  new  sound,  heard  distantly,  through  the 
rain.  Looking  back  he  saw,  from  behind  a  rampart  of 
dusty  flower-pots,  first  a  head,  then  a  rough  tousled  body, 
then  a  tail  that  might  be  recognised  amongst  all  the  tails 
of  Christendom. 

Hamlet  (who  had  trained  himself  to  meet  with  a  fine 
natural  show  of  bravery  every  possible  violence  save  only 
thunder)  crept  ashamed,  dirty  and  smiling  towards  his 
master.  God  had  only  played  His  trick — Abraham  and 
Isaac  after  all. 

Then  with  a  fine  sense  of  victory  and  defiance  Jeremy 
turned  back,  looked  up  at  the  slashing  rain,  gazed  out 
upon  the  black  countrv,  at  last  seized  Hamlet  and  draffirins 
him  out  by  his  hind-legs,  knelt  there  in  the  dust  and  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  licked  until  his  face  was  as  though  a 
snail  had  crossed  over  it. 

The  thunder  passed.  Blue  pushed  up  into  the  grey. 
A  cool  air  blew  through  the  world. 

Nevertheless,  deep  in  his  heart,  the  terror  remained. 
In  that  moment  he  had  met  God  face  to  face;  he  had 
delivered  his  first  challenge. 

P.  S. — To  the  incredulous  and  cynical  of  heart  authori- 
tative evidence  can  be  shown  to  prove  that  it  was  on  the 
evening  of  that  Sunday  that  Mrs.  Cole  turned  the  corner 
towards  recovery. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

TO  COW  faem! 


THIS  next  episode  in  Jeremy's  year  has,  be  it  thor- 
oughly understood,  no  plot  nor  climax  to  it — it  is 
simply  the  chronicle  of  an  Odyssey.  Nor  can  it  be  said  to 
have  been  anything  but  a  very  ordinary  Odyssey  to  the 
outside  observer  who,  if  he  be  a  parent,  will  tell  you  that 
going  to  the  seaside  with  the  family  is  the  most  bothering 
thing  in  the  world,  and  if  he  is  a  bachelor  or  old  maid  will 
tell  you  that  being  in  the  same  carriage  with  other  people's 
children  who  are  going  to  the  sea  is  an  abominable  business 
and  the  Law  ought  to  have  something  to  say  to  it. 

All  through  May,  June  and  July  Mrs.  Cole  slowly  pulled 
back  to  something  like  her  natural  health.  The  new  in- 
fant,^Earbara  by  name,  was  as  strong  as  a  pony,  and  kicked 
and  screamed  and  roared  so  that  the  house  was  quite  a  new 
place.  Her  arrival  had  done  a  great  deal  for  Helen,  whose 
gaze  had  hitherto  been  concentrated  entirely  upon  herself ; 
now  she  suddenly  discovered  a  new  element  in  life,  and  it 
was  found  that  she  was  "ideal  with  a  baby"  and  "a,  great 
help  to  nurse."  This  made  her  more  human,  and  Bar- 
bara, realising  as  babies  always  do  who  understands  and 
who  does  not,  would  behave  with  Helen  when  she  would 
behave  with  no  one  else.  Mary  could  not  be  expected 
to  transfer  her  allegiance  from  Jeremy,  and  then  Barbara 

182 


TO  COW  FARM!  183 

was  frightened  at  her  spectacles ;  Jeremy,  having  Hamlet, 
did  not  need  a  baby ! 

There  came  a  fine  hot  morning  towards  the  end  of 
July  when  Miss  Jones  said,  suddenly,  in  the  middle  of 
the  history  lesson:  "Saturday  week  we  go  to  Rafiel." 
Jeremy  choked,  kicked  Mary  under  the  table,  and  was 
generally  impossible  during  the  rest  of  the  morning.  It 
was  Miss  Jones's  fault ;  she  should  have  chosen  her  occa- 
sion more  carefully.  Before  the  evening  Jeremy  was 
standing  in  the  corner  for  drawing  on  his  bedroom  wall- 
paper enormous  figures  in  the  blackest  of  black  lead. 
These  were  to  mark  the  days  that  remained  before  Satur- 
day week,  and  it  was,  Jeremy  maintained,  a  perfectly 
natural  thing  to  do  and  didn't  hurt  the  old  wall-paper 
which  was  dirty  enough  anyway,  and  Mother  had  said, 
long  ago,  he  should  have  a  new  one. 

Meanwhile,  impossible  to  describe  what  Jeremy  felt 
about  it.  Each  year  Cow  Farm  and  Eafiel  had  grown  more 
wonderful;  this  was  now  the  fifth  that  would  welcome 
them  there.  At  first  the  horizon  had  been  limited  by 
physical  incapacity,  then  the  third  year  had  been  rainy, 
and  the  fourth — ah,  the  fourth !  There  had  been  very 
little  the  matter  with  that !  But  this  would  be  better  vet. 
For  one  thing,  there  had  never  been  such  a  summer  as  this 
year  was  providing — a  little  rain  at  night,  a  little  breeze 
at  the  hottest  hour  of  the  day — everything  arranged  on 
purpose  for  Jeremy's  comfort.  And  then,  although  he  did 
not  know  it,  this  was  to  be  truly  the  wonderful  summer 
for  him,  because  after  this  he  would  be  a  schoolbov  and, 
as  is  well  known,  schoolboys  believe  in  nothing  save  what 
they  can  see  with  their  own  eyes  and  are  told  by  other  boys 
physically  stronger  than  themselves. 


184  JEKEMY 

Five  or  six  days  before  the  great  departure  lie  began 
to  worry  himself  about  his  box.  Two  years  ago  he  had 
been  given  a  little  imitation  green  canvas  luggage  box 
exactly  like  his  father's,  except  that  this  one  was  light 
enough  to  carry  in  one's  hand.  Jeremy  adored  this  box 
and  would  have  taken  it  out  with  him,  had  he  been  per- 
mitted, on  all  his  walks,  but  he  had  a  way  of  filling  it 
with  heavy  stones  and  then  asking  Miss  Jones  to  carry  it 
for  him ;  it  had  therefore  been  forbidden. 

But  he  would,  of  course,  take  it  with  him  to  Cow  Farm, 
and  it  should  contain  all  the  things  that  he  loved  best.  At 
first  "all  the  things  that  he  loved  best"  had  not  seemed 
so  very  numerous.  There  would,  first  of  all,  of  course,  be 
the  Hottentot,  a  black  and  battered  clown  for  whom  he 
had  long  ceased  to  feel  any  affection,  but  he  was  compelled 
by  an  irritating  sense  of  loyalty  to  include  it  in  the  party 
just  as  his  mother  might  include  some  tiresome  old  maid 
"because  she  had  nowhere  to  go  to,  poor  thing."  After 
the  Hottentot  there  would  be  his  paint-box,  after  the  paint- 
box a  blue  writing-case,  after  the  writing-case  the  family 
photographs  (Father,  Mother,  Mary  and  Helen),  after 
the  photographs  a  toy  pistol,  after  the  pistol  Hamlet's  ball 
(a  worsted  affair  rendered  by  now  shapeless  and  inco- 
herent), after  the  ball  "Alice  in  Wonderland"  (Mary's 
copy,  but  she  didn't  know),  after  "Alice,"  "Herr  Baby," 
after  "Herr  Baby"  the  Prayer  Book  that  Aunt  Amy  gave 
him  last  birthday,  after  the  Prayer  ^Book  some  dried  flow- 
ers which  were  to  be  presented  to  Mrs.  Monk,  the  lady  of 
Cow  Farm  (this  might  be  called  carrying  coals  to  l^ew- 
castle),  after  the  flowers  a  Bible,  after  the  Bible  four 
walnuts  (very  dry  and  hard  ones),  after  the  walnuts  some 
transfer  papers,  after  the  transfer  papers  six  marbles — 


TO  COW  FAEM!  185 

the  box  was  full  and  more  than  full,  and  he  had  not  in- 
cluded the  hammer  and  nails  that  Uncle  Samuel  had  once 
given  him,  nor  the  cigarette-case  (innocent  now  of  ciga- 
rettes, and  transformed  first  into  a  home  for  walking  snails, 
second  a  grave  for  dead  butterflies,  third  a  mouse-trap), 
nor  the  butterfly  net,  nor  "Struuwelpeter,"  nor  the  picture 
of  Queen  Victoria  cut  from  the  chocolate-box,  nor — most 
impossible  omission  of  all — the  toy-villagei.  The  toy- 
village  !  "What  must  he  do  about  that  ?  Obviously  impos- 
sible to  take  it  all — and  yet  some  of  it  he  must  have.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  ISToah  and  the  church,  perhaps — or  no,  Mrs. 
Monk  would  want  to  see  the  garden — it  would  never  do 
not  to  show  her  the  orchard  with  the  apple-trees,  and  then 
the  youngest  Miss  ISToah !  She  had  always  seemed  to 
Jeremy  so  attractive  with  her  straight  blue  gown  and  hard 
red  cheeks.  He  must  show  her  to  Mrs.  Monk.  And  the 
butcher's  shop,  and  then  the  sheep,  and  the  dogs  and  the 
cows ! 

He  was  truly  in  despair.  He  sat  on  the  schoolroom  floor 
with  his  possessions  all  around  him.  Only  Helen  was  in 
the  room,  and  he  knew  that  it  would  be  no  use  to  appeal 
to  her — she  had  become  so  much  more  conceited  since 
Barbara's  arrival — and  yet  he  must  appeal  to  somebody, 
so  he  said  to  her  very  politely : 

"Please,  Helen,  I've  got  my  box  and  so  many  things 
to  put  into  it  and  it's  nearly  Saturday  already — and  I 
want  to  show  the  ^oahs  to  Mrs.  Monk." 

This  would  have  been  a  difficult  sentence  for  the  most 
clear-headed  person  to  unravel,  and  Helen  was,  at  that 
moment,  trying  to  write  a  letter  to  an  aunt  whom  she  had 
never  seen  and  for  whom  she  had  no  sort  of  affection,  so 
she  answered  him  rather  roughly: 


186  JEKEMY 

"Oh,  don't  botlier  with,  your  box,  Jeremy.  Can't  you 
see  I'm  busy  ?" 

''You  may  be  busy,"  said  Jeremy,  rising  indignantly  to 
his  feet,  "but  I'm  busy  too,  and  my  business  is  just  as 
good  as  yours  with  your  silly  old  letter." 

"Oh,  don't  hother!"  said  Helen,  whereupon  Jeremy 
crept  behind  her  and  pinched  her  stocking.  A  battle 
followed,  too  commonplace  in  its  details  to  demand  de- 
scription here.  It  need  only  be  said  that  Hamlet  joined 
in  it  and  ran  away  with  Helen's  letter  which  had  blown 
to  the  ground  during  the  struggle,  and  that  he  ate  it,  in 
his  corner,  with  great  satisfaction.  Then,  when  they  were 
at  their  angriest,  Helen  suddenly  began  to  laugh  which  she 
did  sometimes,  to  her  own  intense  annoyance,  when  she 
terribly  wanted  to  be  enraged,  then  Jeremy  laughed  too, 
and  Hamlet  yielded  up  fragments  of  the  letter — so  that 
all  was  well. 

But  the  problem  of  the  box  was  not  solved — and,  in  the 
end,  the  only  part  of  the  toy  village  that  Mrs.  Monk  ever 
saw  was  the  youngest  Miss  ^Noah  and  one  apple-tree  for 
her  to  sit  under. 

n 

The  ritual  of  the  journey  to  Cow  Farm  was,  by  this 
time,  of  course,  fiinnly  established,  and  the  first  part  of 
the  ritual  was  that  one  should  wake  up  at  three  in  the 
morning.  This  year,  however,  for  some  strange  mysterious 
reason  Jeremy  overslept  himself  and  did  not  wake  up 
until  eight  o'clock,  to  find  then  that  everyone  was  already 
busy  packing  and  brushing  and  rushing  about,  and  that  all 
his  own  most  sacred  preparations  must  be  squeezed  into  no 
time  at  all  if  he  were  to  be  ready.    Old  Tom  Collins's  bus 


TO  COW  FARM!  187 

came  along  at  twelve  o'clock  to  catcli  the  one  o'clock  train, 
so  that  Jeremy  might  be  considered  to  have  the  whole 
morning  for  his  labours,  but  that  was  not  going  to  be 
enough  for  him  unless  he  was  very  careful.  Grown-up 
people  had  such  a  way  of  suddenly  catching  on  to  you  and 
washing  your  ears,  or  making  you  brush  your  teeth,  or 
sitting  you  down  in  a  corner  with  a  book,  that  circum- 
navigating them  and  outplotting  them  needed  as  much 
nerve  and  enterprise  as  tracking  Red  Indians.  When 
things  were  fined  down  to  the  most  naked  accuracy  he  had 
apparently  only  two  '^jobs":  one  to  accustom  Hamlet  to 
walking  with  a  ''lead,"  the  other  to  close  the  green  box; 
but  of  course  Mary  would  want  advice,  and  there  would,  in 
all  probability,  be  a  dispute  or  two  about  property  that 
would  take  up  the  time. 

It  was  indeed  an  eventful  morning.  Trouble  began 
with  Mary  suddenly  discovering  that  she  had  lost  her 
copy  of  ''Alice  in  Wonderland"  and  rushing  to  Jeremy'^ 
box  and  upsetting  all  Jeremy's  things  to  see  whether  it 
were  there.  Jeremy  objected  to  this  with  an  indignation 
that  was  scarcely  in  the  sequel  justified,  because  Mary 
found  the  book  jammed  against  the  paint-box  and  a  dry 
walnut  nestling  in  its  centre.  She  cried  and  protested  and 
then  suddenly,  with  the  disgusting  sentimentality  that  was 
so  characteristic  of  her,  abandoned  her  position  altogether 
and  said  that  Jeremy  could  have  it,  and  then  cried  again 
because  he  said  he  didn't  want  it. 

Then  Jeremy  had  to  put  everything  back  into  the  box 
again,  and  in  the  middle  of  this  Hamlet  ran  off  with  the 
red-cheeked  Miss  Xoah  between  his  teeth  and  began  to  lick 
the  blue  off  her  dress,  looking  up  at  the  assembled  com- 
pany between  every  lick  with  a  smile  of  the  loveliest  satis- 


188  JEREMY 

faction.  Then,  when  the  box  was  almost  closed,  it  was 
discovered  by  a  shocked  and  virtuous  Helen  that  Jeremy 
had  left  out  his  Bible. 

''^There'll  be  one  there/'  said  Jeremy  in  an  angry  agi- 
tated whisper,  hoping  to  escape  the  attention  of  Miss 
Jones. 

^'What's  that,  Jeremy  dear?"  said  Miss  Jones. 

"Oh,  fancy.  Miss  Jones!"  said  Helen.  "He's  taking 
all  his  dirty  old  toys  and  even  his  old  clown,  and  he's 
leaving  out  his  Bible." 

"I'm  not !"  cried  Jeremy,  taking  it  and  trying  to  squeeze 
it  down  between  three  walnuts  and  the  toy  pistol. 

"Oh,  Jeremy  dear,  that's  not  the  way  to  treat  your  Bible. 
I'll  give  you  some  paper  to  wrap  it  up  in,  and  you'd  better 
take  the  things  out  again  and  put  it  in  at  the  bottom  of  the 
box."    Yes,  obviously  he  would  not  be  ready  in  time. 

The  matter  of  Hamlet  and  the  "lead"  was  also  very 
exhausting.  Hamlet  had  never,  in  all  his  days,  been  tied 
to  anyone  or  anything.  Of  course  no  one  could  tell  what 
had  been  his  history  before  he  came  strolling  on  to  the 
Cole  horizon,  and  it  may  be  that  once  as  a  very  small 
puppy  he  had  been  tied  on  to  something.  On  the  whole, 
that  is  probable,  his  protests  on  this  occasion  being  of  a 
kind  so  vehement  as  to  argue  some  reminiscences  behind 
them.  Mrs.  Cole  had  bought  a  beautiful  "lead"  of  black 
leather;  of  course  he  had  already  a  collar  studded  with 
little  silver  nails,  and  the  point  was  very  simply  to  fasten 
the  "lead"  on  to  the  collar.  Jeremy  had  been  promised 
that  he  should  conduct  Hamlet,  and  it  had  seemed,  when 
the  promise  had  been  made,  as  though  it  would  be  a  very 
simple  thing  to  carry  out.  Hamlet  no  sooner  saw  the  cord 
than  he  began  his  ingenious  protests,  sitting  up  and  smi^ 


TO  COW  FARM!  189 

ing  at  it,  suddenly  darting  at  the  recumbent  Miss  INToali 
and  rushing  round  the  room  with  her,  finally  catching 
the  ''lead"  itself  in  his  teeth  and  hiding  with  it  under 
Miss  Jones's  skirt. 

The  result  was  that  Tom  Collinses  bus  arrived  when  no 
one  in  the  schoolroom  was  in  the  least  prepared  for  it. 
Then  what  confusion  there  was !  Mrs.  Cole,  looking  strange 
in  her  hat  and  veil,  as  though  she  were  dressed  up  for  a 
play,  came  urging  them  to  hurry,  "because  Father  was 
waiting."  Then  Hamlet  tied  himself  and  his  "lead"  round 
the  leg  of  the  table ;  then  Mary  said  in  her  most  tiresome 
manner,  apropos  of  nothing  at  all,  "You  do  love  me, 
Jeremy,  don't  you  ?"  just  at  the  moment  when  he  was 
trying  to  unlace  Hamlet,  and  her  lip  began  to  tremble 
when  he  said,  "Oh,  don't  bother,"  so  that  he  was  com- 
pelled to  add  "Of  course  I  do" ;  then  Father  came  running 
up  the  stairs  with  "Really,  this  is  too  disgraceful.  We 
shall  miss  that  train !" 

Then  Uncle  Samuel  appeared,  looking  so  queer  that 
Jeremy  was  compelled  to  stare  at  him.  Jeremy  had  seen 
very  little  of  Uncle  Samuel  during  these  last  months. 
He  had  hoped,  after  that  wonderful  adventure  of  the 
Christmas  Pantomime,  that  they  were  going  to  be  friends, 
but  it  had  not  been  so.  He  had  been  away  somewhere,  in 
some  strange  place,  painting,  and  then,  on  his  rfeturn, 
he  had  hid  himself  and  his  odd  affairs  away  in  some  corner 
of  the  house  where  no  one  saw  him.  He  had  had  his  life 
and  Jeremy  had  had  his. 

I'J'evertheless  Jeremy  was  delighted  to  see  him.  It 
would  be  fun  to  have  him  at  Cow  Farm  with  his  squashy 
brown  hat,  his  fat  cheeks,  his  blue  painting  smock,  and 
his  short  legs  with  huge  boots.    He  was  different,  in  some 


190  JEREMY 

way,  from  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  Jeremy,  even  at 
that  early  stage  of  his  education,  already  perceived  that 
he  could  learn  more  from  Uncle  Samuel  than  from  any 
other  member  of  the  family. 

Now  he  put  his  head  in  through  the  door  and  said: 
''Well,  you  kids,  aren't  you  ready?  It's  time!"  Then, 
seeing  Miss  Jones,  he  said :  "Good  morning,"  and  bolted 
like  a  rabbit.  Even  then  Jeremy  noticed  that  he  had  paint 
on  his  fingers,  and  that  two  of  his  waistcoat  buttons  were 
unfastened. 

Then  down  in  the  hall  what  confusion  there  was !  Boxes 
here,  there  and  everywhere.  Mother,  Father,  Aunt  Amy, 
Uncle  Samuel,  and,  most  interesting  of  all,  Barbara  and 
the  new  nurse.  The  new  nurse  was  called  Mrs.  Patcham, 
and  she  was  stout,  red-cheeked,  and  smiling.  The  bundle 
in  white  called  Barbara  was,  most  happily,  sleeping;  but 
Hamlet  barked  at  Mrs.  Patcham,  and  that  woke  Barbara, 
who  began  to  cry.  Then  Collins  came  in  with  his  coat  off, 
and  the  muscles  swelling  on  his  shoulders,  and  handled 
the  boxes  as  though  they  were  paper,  and  the  cook,  and 
Eose,  and  William,  the  handy-boy,  and  old  Jordan,  the 
gardener,  and  Mrs.  Preston,  a  lady  from  two  doors  down, 
who  sometimes  came  in  to  help,  all  began  to  bob  and  smile, 
and  Father  said:  "ISTow,  my  dear.  Now,  my  dear,"  and 
Hamlet  wound  himself  and  his  lead  round  everything  that 
he  could  see,  and  Helen  fussed  and  said :  "Now,  Jeremy," 
and  Miss  Jones  said:  "Now,  children,"  and  last  of  all 
Collins  said:  "Now,  mum;  now,  sir,"  and  then  they  all 
were  bundled  into  the  bus,  with  the  cart  and  the  luggage 
coming  along  behind. 

The  drive  through  the  streets  was,  of  course,  as  lovely  as 
it  could  be ;  not  in  the  least  because  anyone  could  see  any- 


TO  COW  FAEM!  191 

thing — tliat  was  hindered  by  the  fact  that  the  windows  of 
the  bus  were  so  old  that  they  were  crusted  with  a  kind  of 
glassy  mildew,  and  no  amount  of  rubbing  on  the  window- 
panes  provided  one  with  a  view — but  because  the  inside 
of  the  bus  was  inevitably  connected  with  adventure — 
partly  through  its  motion,  partly  through  its  noise,  and 
partly  through  its  lovely  smell.  These  were,  of  course, 
Jeremy's  views,  and  it  can't  definitely  be  asserted  that  all 
grown-up  people  shared  them.  But  whenever  Jeremy  had 
ridden  in  that  bus  he  had  always  been  on  his  way  to  some- 
thing delightful.  The  mo  Lion,  therefore,  rejoiced  his  heart, 
although  the  violence  of  it  was  such  that  everyone  was 
throvra.  against  everyone  else,  so  that  Uncle  Samuel  was 
suddenly  hurled  against  the  bonnet  of  Miss  Jones,  and 
Helen  struck  Aunt  Amy  in  the  chest,  and  Jeremy  himself 
dived  into  his  sister  Barbara.  As  to  the  smell,  it  was  that 
lovely  well-known  one  that  has  in  it  mice  and  straw,  wet 
umbrellas  and  whisky,  goloshes  and  candle-grease,  dust  and 
green  paint !  Jeremy  loved  it,  and  sniffed  on  this  occasion 
so  often  that  Miss  Jones  told  him  to  blow  his  nose.  As  to 
the  noise,  who  is  there  who  does  not  remember  that  rattle 
and  clatter,  that  sudden,  deafening  report  as  of  the  firing 
of  a  hundred  firearms,  the  sudden  pause  when  every  bolt 
and  bar  and  hinge  sighs  and  moans  like  the  wind  or  a 
stormy  sea,  and  then  that  sudden  scream  of  the  clattering 
windows,  when  it  is  as  though  a  frenzied  cook,  having 
received  notice  to  leave,  was  breaking  every  scrap  of  china 
in  the  kitchen  ?  Who  does  not  know  that  last  maddened 
roar  as  the  vehicle  stumbles  across  the  last  piece  of  cobbled 
road — a  roar  that  drowns,  with  a  savage  and  determined 
triumph,  all  those  last  directions  not  to  forget  this,  that, 
and  the  other;  all  those  incjuiries  as  to  whether  this,  that, 


192  JEREMY 

and  the  other  had  been  remembered?  Cobbles  are  gone 
now,  and  old  buses  sleep  in  deserted  courts,  and  Collins, 
alas,  is  not.  His  youngest  son  has  a  motor-garage,  and 
Polchester  has  asphalt — sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 

Jeremy,  clutching  his  green  box  with  one  hand  and 
Hamlet's  lead  with  the  other,  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  happi- 
ness. The  louder  the  noise,  the  rocking  motion,  the 
stronger  the  smell,  the  better,  "Isn't  it  lovely  ?"  he  mur- 
mured to  Miss  Jones  during  one  of  the  pauses. 

It  may  be  that  it  was  at  this  moment  that  Uncle  Samuel 
finally  made  up  his  mind  about  Jeremy.  In  spite  of  his 
dislike,  even  hatred  of  children,  he  had  been  coming  slowly, 
during  the  last  two  years,  to  an  affection  for,  and  interest 
in,  his  nephew  that  was  something  quite  new  to  his  cynical, 
egoistic  nature.  It  had  leapt  into  activity  at  Christmas 
time,  then  had  died  again.  ISTow  as,  flung  first  into  his 
sister's  bony  arms,  then  on  to  the  terrified  spectacles  of  his 
niece  Mary,  he  tried  to  recover  himself,  he  was  caught 
and  held  by  that  picture  of  his  small  nephew,  seated,  solid 
and  square,  in  his  blue  sailor  suit,  his  bare  knees  swing- 
ing, his  hand  clutching  his  precious  box  with  an  energy 
that  defied  Fate  itself  to  take  it  from  him,  his  mouth  set, 
his  eyes  staring,  radiant  with  joy,  in  front  of  him. 

On  arrival  at  the  station  it  was  found  that  the  one 
o'clock  to  Liskane  was  "just  about  due,"  so  that  there  was 
no  time  to  be  lost.  They  had  to  rush  along  under  the  great 
iron  dome,  passing  by  the  main  line,  disregarding  the  tem- 
pestuous express  from  Truxe  that  drew  up,  as  it  were  dis- 
dainfully, just  as  they  passed,  and  finding  the  modest  side 
line  to  Liskane  and  St.  Lowe.  Here  there  was  every  kind 
of  excitement  for  Jeremy.  Anyone  who  has  any  kind  of 
passion  for  observation  must  have  discovered  long  ago  that 


TO  COW  FAEM!  193 

a  side  line  has  ever  so  much  more  charm  and  appeal  about 
it  than  a  main  line.  A  main  line  is  scornful  of  the  station 
in  whose  heart  it  consents  for  a  moment  to  linger,  its  eyes 
are  staring  forward  towards  the  vast  cities  who  are  im- 
patiently awaiting  it;  but  a  side  line  has  its  very  home' 
here.  So  much  gossip  passes  from  day  to  day  above  its 
rails  (and  gossip  that  has  for  its  circumference  five  green 
fields,  a  country  road,  and  a  babbling  brook),  that  it  knows 
all  its  passengers  by  heart. 

To  the  people  who  travel  on  a  side  line,  the  train  itself 
is  still  something  of  a  wonder.  How  much  more  was  that 
true  thirty  years  ago.  On  this  especial  line  there  were 
only  two  stations — Liskane  and  St.  Lowe,  and,  of  a  cer- 
tainty, these  stations  would  not  even  now  be  in  existence 
were  it  not  that  St.  Lowe  was  a  fishing  centre  of  very  great 
importance.  The  little  district  that  comprehended  St. 
Lowe,  Garth  in  Roselands,  Stoep  in  Eoselands,  Lucent- 
Polwint,  Eafiel,  and  all  the  smaller  hamlets  around  them, 
was  fed  by  this  line ;  but,  even  so,  the  little  train  was  never 
crowded.  Tourists  did  not,  and  even  now  do  not,  go  to 
Polwint  and  St.  Lowe  because  "they  smell  so  fishy,"  nor  to 
Eafield  "because  it's  too  far  from  the  railway,"  nor  to  the 
Roseland  valleys  "because  there's  nothing  to  see  there." 
May  these  reasons  hold  good  for  many  years  to  come ! 

To-day  there  were  three  farmers  in  brown  leggings,  with 
pipes,  and  thick  knotted  walking-sticks,  two  or  three  women 
with  baskets,  and  a  child  or  so,  and  an  amiable,  absent- 
minded  clergyman  in  a  black  cloth  so  faded  that  it  was 
now  green,  reading  The  Times,  and  shaking  his  head  over 
it  as  he  stumbled  up  and  down  the  platform.  One  of  the 
^farmers  had  a  large,  woolly  sheep-dog,  who,  of  course,  ex- 
'jcited  Hamlet  to  a  frenzy.     Jeremy,  therefore,  had  his 


194  JEREMY 

time  fully  occupied  in  checking  this ;  but  he  had,  neverthe- 
less, the  opportunity  to  obsen^e  how  one  of  the  farmers 
puffed  the  smoke  out  of  his  cheeks  as  though  he  were  an 
engine;  how  one  of  the  women,  with  a  back  as  broad  as  a 
wall,  had  red  stockings;  and  how  the  clergyman  nearly 
fell  on  to  the  railway-line  every  time  he  turned  round,  and 
only  saved  himself  from  disaster  by  a  miracle.  The  train 
arriving  at  last,  they  all  climbed  into  it,  and  then  had  to 
wait  for  a  hot,  grilling  half -hour  whilst  the  engine  made  up 
its  mind  that  it  was  worth  its  while  to  take  all  the  trouble 
to  start  off  again. 

"An  hour  late,  upon  my  word,"  said  Mr.  Cole  angrily, 
when  at  last,  with  a  snore  and  a  heave,  and  a  grunt  and  a 
scream,  they  started.  "It's  really  too  bad.  I  shall  have  to 
complain,"  which,  as  everyone  present  knew,  he  had  not 
the  slightest  intention  of  doing.  In  Jeremy's  carriage 
there  were  his  father,  his  mother.  Uncle  Samuel,  himself, 
Mary,  and,  of  course,  Hamlet.  Hamlet  had  never  been  in 
a  train  before,  and  his  terror  at  the  way  that  the  ground 
quivered  under  him  was  pitiful  to  see.  He  lay  first  under 
the  seat,  trying  to  hold  himself  tightly  together,  then,  when 
that  failed,  he  made  startled  frenzied  leaps  on  to  laps  (the 
lead  had  been  removed  for  the  time),  finally  he  cowered 
up  into  the  comer  behind  Uncle  Samuel,  who  seemed  to 
understand  his  case  and  sympathised  with  it.  Whenever 
the  train  stopped  (which,  being  a  Glebeshire  train,  it  did 
continually) ,  he  recovered  at  once  his  savoir-faire,  asserted 
his  dignity,  gazed  through  the  windows  at  the  fields  and 
cows  as  though  he  owned  them  aU,  and  barked  with  the 
friendly  greeting  of  comrade  to  comrade  whenever  he  saw 
another  dog. 

The  next  thing  that  occupied  Jeremy's  attention  was 


TO  COW  FAEM!  195 

Tuncli.  Many  people  despise  sandwiches  and  milk  out  of 
beer-bottles  and  bananas  and  seed-cake.  Jeremy,  of  course, 
did  not.  He  loved  anything  eaten  out  of  paper,  from  the 
ice-cream  sold  by  the  Barney  man  in  Polchester  Square 
(only  once  did  he  secure  some)  down  to  the  frills  that  there 
are  round  the  tail  of  any  self-respecting  ham.  But  the 
paper  on  this  journey  to  Eafield!  There  was  nothing  in 
the  world  to  touch  it.  In  the  first  place  you  spread  news- 
paper on  your  knees,  then  there  was  paper  under  the  sand- 
wiches (chicken),  and  more  paper  under  the  sandwiches 
(beef),  and  still  more  under  the  sandwiches  (egg)  ;  there 
was  paper  round  the  seed-cake,  and,  most  wonderful  of  all, 
paper  round  the  jam-puifs.  Jam-puffs  with  strawberry 
jam  eaten  in  the  odour  of  ginger-beer  and  eggshells !  Is  it 
possible  for  life  at  its  very  best  to  hold  more  ?  He  kept  his 
jam-puff  so  long  as  he  could,  until  at  last  Mr.  Cole  said: 
"JSTow,  my  boy !  Finish  it  up — finish  it  up.  Paper  out  of 
the  window — all  neat  and  tidy;  that's  right!"  speak- 
ing in  that  voice  which  Jeremy  hated,  because  it  was  used, 
so  especially,  when  cod-liver  oil  had  to  be  taken.  He  swal- 
lowed his  puff  in  a  gulp,  and  then  gazed  out  of  the  window 
lamenting  its  disappearance. 

"Did  you  like  it?"  whispered  Mary  hoarsely. 

"You've  got  some  jam  on  the  side  of  your  nose,"  said 
Jeremy. 

He  was  sitting  next  to  his  father,  who  had  the  comer 
seat,  and  he  now  devoted  all  his  energies  to  prevent  himself 
from  falling  asleep  against  his  father's  leg.  But  the  gin- 
ger-beer, the  glazed  and  shining  fields  beyond  the  window, 
the  little  blobs  of  sunlight  that  danced  upon  the  floor  of  the 
carriage,  the  scents  of  food  and  flowers,  and  the  hot  breeze, 
the  hum  of  the  train,  and  the  dancing  of  the  telegraph 


196  JEEEMY 

wires — all  these  things  were  against  him.  His  head  began 
to  nod  and  then  to  jump  hack  with  a  sudden  terrible  spring 
as  though  an  evil  demon  pulled  it  with  a  rope  from  behind, 
the  carriage  swelled  like  a  balloon,  then  dwindled  into  a 
thin,  straight  line.  The  strangest  things  happened  to  his 
friends  and  relations.  His  mother,  who  was  reading  The 
Church  Family  Newspaper ^  developed  two  faces  and  a  nose 
like  a  post,  and  Uncle  Samuel,  who  had,  in  harsh  reality, 
two  chins,  seemed  to  be  all  folds  and  creases  like  a  balloon 
when  it  is  shivering  down  into  collapse.  Jeremy  fought 
with  these  fantasies;  the  lines  on  the  newspaper  doubled 
and  redoubled,  vanished  and  sprang  to  life  again.  He 
said:  "I  will  not,"  and,  instantly,  his  head  on  the  soft 
part  of  his  father's  thigh,  was  asleep. 


in 

In  his  dreams  he  was  riding  on  a  cloud  all  pink  and 
gold,  and  behind  came  a  row  of  shining,  white  clouds 
fluify  like  bales  of  wool  wrapped  round  lighted  lanterns. 

His  cloud  rose  and  fell,  rose  and  fell,  and  a  voice  said  in 
his  ear :  "All  is  well !  All  is  well !  You  can  go  on  like 
this  for  ever.  There  will  be  jam-puffs  soon,  and  ice-cream, 
and  fish-cakes,  and  you  can  go  to  China  this  way  whenever 
you  like." 

And  he  said:     "Can't  I  take  Hamlet  with  me?" 

And  the  voice  answered :  "Hamlet  is  with  you  already," 
and  there,  behold,  was  Hamlet  sitting  on  the  pink  cloud 
with  a  stiff  gold  collar  round  his  neck,  wagging  his  tail. 
And  then  the  voice  shouted  so  loudly  that  Jeremy  jumped 
off  the  pink  cloud  in  his  astonishment:  "Liskane!  Lis- 
kane!    Liskane!"  and  Jeremy  jumped  and  fell  and  fell — 


TO  COW  FARM!  197 

right  into  his  father's  lap,  with  someone  crying  in  his  ear : 
"Wake  up,  Jeremy!     We're  there!     We're  there!" 

His  first  thought  was  for  his  green  box,  which  was,  he 
found,  safely  and  securely  in  his  hand.  Then  for  Hamlet, 
who  was,  he  saw  with  horror,  already  upon  the  platform, 
the  lead  trailing  behind  him  like  a  neglected  conscience,  his 
burning  eyes  piercing  his  hair  in  search  of  another  dog, 
whom  he  smelt  but  could  not  see. 

Jeremy,  rushing  out  of  the  train,  seized  the  lead,  scolded 
his  recovered  property,  who  wore  an  expression  of  injured 
and  abandoned  innocence,  and  looked  about  him.  Yes, 
this  was  Liskane — wonderful,  marvellous,  magical  Lis- 
kane !  To  the  bored  and  cynical  adult  Liskane  may  easily 
appear  to  be  one  of  the  ugliest,  most  deserted  stations  in 
the  whole  of  Europe,  having  nothing  on  either  side  of  it 
save  barren  grey  fields  that  never  grow  grass  but  only 
stones  and  bottles,  with  its  single  decoration — a  heavy  iron 
bridge  that  crosses  the  rails  and  leads  up  to  the  higher 
road  and  the  town  of  Liskane.  Ugly  enough,  but  to 
Jeremy,  on  this  summer  afternoon,  the  gate  to  a  sure  and 
certain  Paradise. 

Although  his  family  were  fussing  around  him,  Barbara 
crying,  Mr.  Cole  saying:  "Four,  Five,  Six.  .  .  .  But 
Where's  the  black  box?  Your  black  box,  Amy.  .  .  .  Six, 
Seven.  .  .  .  d3ut  there  should  be  Eight.  .  .  .  Seven 
.  .  .  "  and  Mrs.  Cole  saying:  "And  there's  my  brown 
bag.  The  little  one  with  the  black  handle,"  and  Helen  say- 
ing. "00,  was  it  adidums,  then  ?  Nandy-Pandy,  ISTandy- 
Pandy.  .  .  ."  and  Miss  Jones:  "E'ow,  Mary!  Xow, 
Jeremy !  Xow,  Helen !" ;  although  this  was  going  on  just 
as  it  always  had  gone  on,  his  eyes  were  searching  for  the 
wagonette.    Ah,  there  it  was !    He  could  just  see  the  top  of 


198  JEREMY 

it  beyond  the  iron  bridge,  and  Jim,  the  man  from  tbe 
Farm,  would  be  coming  down  to  help  with  the  boxes ;  yes, 
there  he  was  crossing  the  bridge  now,  with  his  red  face  and 
broad  shoulders,  and  the  cap  on  the  side  of  his  head,  just 
as  he  always  wore  it.  Jeremy  recognised  him  with  a 
strange,  little  choking  sensation.  It  was  "coming  home"  to 
him,  all  this  was — the  great  event  of  his  life,  and  as  he 
looked  at  the  others  he  realised,  young  as  he  was,  that  none 
of  them  felt  it  as  he  did,  and  the  realisation  gave  him  a 
strange  feeling,  half  of  gratification,  half  of  loneliness. 
He  stood  there,  a  little  apart  from  the  rest  of  them,  clutch- 
ing his  box,  and  holding  on  to  Hamlet's  lead,  feeling  so 
deeply  excited  that  his  heart  was  like  a  hard,  cold  stone 
jumping  up  and  down,  bump,  bump,  behind  his  waist- 
coat. 

"That's  Jim !  That's  Jim !"  he  whispered  in  a  hoarse 
gasp  to  Miss  Jones. 

"Now  mind,  dear,"  she  answered  in  her  kindly,  groping 
voice.  "You'll  be  falling  on  to  the  rail  if  you  aren't  care- 
ful." 

It  strangely  annoyed  him  that  his  father  should  greet 
Jim  just  as  though  he  were  some  quite  ordinary  man  in 
Polchester.  He  himself  waited  in  a  strange  agitation  until 
Jim  should  notice  him.  The  man  turned  at  last,  bending 
down  to  pick  up  a  box,  saw  him,  touched  his  cap,  smiling 
a  long,  crooked  smile,  and  Jeremy  blushed  with  happiness. 
It  was  the  first  recognition  that  he  had  had  from  the 
farm,  and  it  pleased  him. 

They  all  moved  up  to  the  higher  road.  Uncle  Samuel, 
coming  on  at  the  last,  in  a  dreamy,  moody  way,  stopping 
on  the  bridge  to  look  down  at  the  railway-line,  and  then 
suddenly  saying  aloud : 


TO  COW  FARM!  199 

"Their  minds  are  full  of  the  number  of  boxes,  and 
-whether  they'll  get  tea,  and  who's  to  pay  what,  and  ^ow 
badly  I  want  a  wash!'  and  already  to-morrow  they'll  be 
wondering  whether  they  oughn't  to  be  getting  home  to  Pol- 
chester.    All  sham !    All  sham !" 

He  wasn't  speaking  to  Jeremy,  but  to  himself.  How- 
ever, Jeremy  said :    "Did  you  see  Jim,  Uncle  ?" 

"No,  I  did  not." 

"He's  fatter  and  redder  than  last  year." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"Are  you  going  to  paint,  Uncle  ?" 

"I  am." 

"What?" 

"Oh,  just  lines  and  circles." 

Jeremy  paused,  standing  for  a  moment,  and  looked 
puzzled.     Then  he  said : 

"Do  you  like  babies,  Uncle  Samuel  ?" 

"is'o,  I  do  not." 

"ISTot  even  Barbara?" 

"No — certainly  not." 

"I  don't,  too.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  paint  cows  and 
houses  like  other  people,  Uncle  Samuel  ?  I  heard  Father 
say  once  that  he  never  knew  what  your  pictures  meant." 

"That's  why  I  paint  them." 

"Why?" 

"So  that  your  father  shan't  know  what  they  mean." 

Although  he  did  not  understand  this  any  more  than  he 
understood  his  uncle,  Jeremy  was  pleased  with  this 
conversation.  It  had  been,  somehow,  in  tone  with  the 
place  and  the  hour ;  it  had  conveyed  to  him  in  some  strange 
fashion  that  his  uncle  cared  for  all  of  this  rather  as  he  him- 
self cared.     Oh !  he  liked  Uncle  Samuel ! 


200  JEEEMY 

He  had  hoped  that  he  might  have  sat  on  the  box  next 
to  Jim,  but  that  place  was  now  piled  up  with  luggage,  so 
he  was  squeezed  in  between  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Patcham, 
with  Hamlet,  very  uncomfortable,  between  his  knees.  They 
drove  off  down  the  high  road,  the  hot  smell  of  the  grass 
came  to  his  nostrils,  the  sun  blazed  down  upon  them,  turn- 
ing the  path  before  them  into  gleaming  steel,  and  the  high 
Glebeshire  hedges,  covered  with  thin  powder,  rose  on  both 
sides  above  them,  breaking  once  and  again  to  show  the 
folding  valleys,  and  the  faint  blue  hills,  and  the  heavy, 
dark  trees  with  their  thick,  black  shadows  staining  the 
grass. 

The  cows  were  clustered  sleeping  wherever  they  could 
find  shadow;  faintly  sheep-bells  tinkled  in  the  distance, 
and  now  and  then  a  stream,  like  broken  glass,  floated,  cried, 
and  was  gone.  They  drove  into  a  dark  wood,  and  the  sun 
scattered  through  the  trees  in  pieces  of  gold  and  shadowy 
streams  of  arrowed  light.  The  birds  were  singing,  and 
whenever  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  and  the  wheels  turned 
onto  soft  moss  or  lines  of  grass,  in  the  sudden  silence  the 
air  was  filled  with  birds'  voices.  That  proved  that  it  must 
now  be  turning  to  the  evening  of  the  day ;  the  sun  was  not 
very  high  above  the  wood,  and  the  sea  of  blue  was  in- 
vaded by  a  high  galleon  of  cloud  that  hovered  with  spread- 
ing sail,  catching  gold  into  its  heart  as  it  moved. 

They  left  the  wood,  crossed  the  River  Garth,  and  came 
out  on  to  moorland.  Here,  for  the  first  time,  Jeremy 
smelt  the  sea;  the  lanes  had  been  hot,  but  here  the  wind 
blew  across  the  moor,  with  the  smell  of  sea-pinks  and  sea- 
gulls in  it.  The  grass  was  short  and  rough ;  the  soil  was 
sand.  On  the  horizon  was  the  grey,  melancholy  tower  of  a 
dof-c^te^l  rai?ie.    Some  bird  uew  with  swiftly  driving  wings, 


TO  COW  FAEM!  201 

crying  as  it  went.  The  smell  of  the  moor  was  as  fresh  as 
though  the  foot  of  man  had  never  crossed  it — deserted,  but 
not  alone ;  bare,  but  not  empty ;  uninhabited,  but  peopled ; 
silent,  but  full  of  voices. 

Jeremy's  excitement  grew.  He  knew  now  how  every 
line  of  the  road  would  be.  They  left  the  moor  and  were 
on  the  road  leading  to  Rafield.  These  were  the  days  before 
they  built  the  road  from  Liskane  wide  enough  for  motor- 
cars and  other  horrible  inventions.  Thirty  years  ago  the 
way  was  so  narrow  that  the  briars  and  ferns  brushed  your 
face  as  you  passed,  and  you  could  reach  out  your  hand  and 
pluck  snap-dragons  and  dandelions  and  fox-gloves.  Many 
roads  twisted  in  and  out  upon  one  another;  the  corners 
were  so  sharp  that  sometimes  the  wagonette  seemed  to  hang 
upon  one  wheel  as  it  turned.  Still  no  sight  of  the  sea,  but 
the  smell  of  it  now  was  ever^'where,  and  sometimes  at  a 
sudden  bend  there  would  come  a  faint  beat,  beat  upon  the 
ear  with  something  rhyming  and  measured  in  it,  like  the 
murmur  of  a  sleeping  giant. 

They  came  to  the  bend  where  the  hill  suddenly  dips  at 
a  fearful  angle  down  into  Rafield.  Here  they  turned  to 
the  right,  deep  between  edges  again,  then  through  a  little 
copse,  and  then,  as  though  with  a  whisk  of  the  finger,  right 
on  to  Cow  Farm  itself. 

It  was  an  old  square  house,  deep  red  brick,  with  crooked 
chimneys,  and  a  stone  court  in  front  of  it.  To  either  side 
of  the  court  there  were  barns.  Behind  the  house  thick 
trees,  clouded  with  green,  showed.  In  the  middle  of  the 
court  was  a  pump,  and  all  about  the  flagged  stones  pigeons 
were  delicately  walking.  As  they  drove  up,  the  pigeons 
rose  in  a  wheeling  flight  against  the  sky  now  staining 
faintly  with  amber;  dogs  rushed  barking  from  the  barns ;  a 


202  JEEEMY 

haycart  turned  the  comer,  its  wheels  creaking,  and  four 
little  children  perched  high  on  the  top  of  the  hay.  Then 
the  hall-door  opened,  and  behold  Mrs.  Monk,  Mr.  Monk^ 
and,  clustering  shyly  behind,  the  little  Monks. 

In  the  scene  that  followed  Jeremy  was  forgotten.  He 
did  not  know  what  it  was  that  made  him  hang  behind  the 
others,  but  he  stood  beside  the  wagonette,  bent  down  and 
released  Hamlet,  and  then  waited,  hiding  under  the  shadow 
of  the  cart.  His  happiness  was  almost  intolerable;  he 
could  not  speak,  he  could  not  move,  and  in  the  heart  of  hia 
happiness  there  was  a  strange  unhappiness  that  he  had 
never  known  before.  The  loneliness  that  he  had  felt  at 
Liskane  Station  was  intensified,  so  that  he  felt  like  a 
stranger  who  was  seeing  his  father,  or  his  mother,  or  aunt, 
or  sisters  for  the  first  time.  Everything  about  him  em- 
phasised the  loneliness:  the  slow  evening  light  that  was 
stealing  into  the  sky,  the  sound  of  some  machine  in  the 
farm-house  turning  with  a  melancholy  rhythmic  whine,  a 
voice  calling  in  the  fields,  the  ramble  of  the  sea,  the  twitter- 
ing of  birds  in  the  garden  trees,  the  bark  of  a  dog  far,  far 
away,  and,  through  them  all,  the  sense  that  the  world  was 
sinking  down  into  silence,  and  that  all  the  sounds  were  slip- 
ping away,  like  visitors  hurrying  from  the  park  before  the 
gates  are  shut ;  he  stood  there,  listening,  caught  into  a  life 
that  was  utterly  his  own  and  had  no  share  with  any  other. 
He  looked  around  and  saw  that  they  were  all  going  into 
the  house,  that  Jim  and  Mr.  Monk  were  busy  with  the 
boxes,  and  that  no  one  was  aware  of  him.  He  knew  what 
he  wanted. 

He  slipped  across  the  court  and  dropped  into  the  black 
cavernous  hole  of  the  farther  bam.  At  first  the  darkness 
stopped  him ;  but  he  knew  his  way,  found  the  steps  that  led 


TO  COW  FAEM !  203 

up  to  the  loft,  and  was  soon  perched  high  behind  a  little 
square  window  that  was  now  blue  and  gold  against  the 
velvety  blackness  behind  him.  This  was  his  favourite  spot 
in  all  the  farm.  Here,  all  the  year,  they  stored  the  apples, 
and  the  smell  of  the  fruit  was  thick  in  the  air,  sweet  and 
strong,  clinging  about  every  fibre  of  the  place,  so  that  you 
could  not  disturb  a  strand  nor  a  stone  without  sending 
some  new  drift  of  the  scent  up  against  your  nostrils.  All 
the  year  after  his  first  visit,  Jeremy  had  been  longing  to 
smell  that  smell  again,  and  now  he  knelt  up  against  the 
window,  drinking  it  in.  With  his  eyes  he  searched  the 
horizon.  From  here  you  could  see  the  garden  with  the  sun- 
dial, the  fields  beyond,  the  sudden  dip  with  the  trees  at 
the  edge  of  it  bent  crossways  by  the  wind,  and  there,  in 
such  a  cup  as  one's  hands  might  form,  just  beyond,  was  the 

dC/cI*     •     •     • 

He  stared  as  though  his  eyes  would  start  from  his 
head.  Behind  him  was  the  cloudy  smoke  of  the  apple- 
scent;  in  front  of  him  the  sun  was  sinking  towards  the 
dark  elms.  Soon  the  trees  would  catch  the  sun  and  hide 
it ;  the  galleon  cloud  that  had  been  over  them  as  they  drove 
was  now  banked  in  red  and  gold  across  the  horizon ;  birds 
slowly,  lazily  fled  to  their  homes. 

He  heard  someone  call,  "Jeremy!  Jeremy!"  With  a 
last  gaze  he  saw  the  blue  cup  turn  to  gold,  the  sun  reached 
the  tops  of  the  elms ;  the  fields  were  lit  with  the  glitter  of 
shining  glass,  then,  even  as  he  watched,  they  were  purple, 
then  grey,  then  dim  like  smoke. 

Again  the  voice  called  "Jeremy !"  He  slipped  from  the 
window,  found  the  little  stair,  ran  across  the  dusky  court 
and  entered  the  house. 


CHAPTEE  IX 

THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHARLOTTE 


TOWARDS  the  end  of  the  first  fortnight's  stay  at  Cow 
Farm  it  was  announced  that  very  shortly   there 
would  he  a  picnic  at  Eafiel  Cove. 

Jeremy  had  heen  waiting  for  this  proclamation;  once 
or  twice  he  had  asked  whether  they  were  going  to  the  Cove 
and  had  been  told  "not  to  bother,"  ''all  in  good  time,"  and 
other  ridiculous  elderly  finalities,  but  he  knew  that  the  day 
must  come,  as  it  had  always  come  every  year.  The  picnic 
at  Eafield  was  always  the  central  event  of  the  summer. 

And  he  had  this  year  another  reason  for  excited  antici- 
pation— the  wonderful  Charlotte  Le  Page  was  to  be  pres- 
ent. Until  now  Jeremy  had  never  taken  the  slightest  in- 
terest in  girls.  Mary  and  Helen,  being  his  sisters,  were 
necessities  and  inevitabilities,  but  that  did  not  mean  that 
he  could  not  get  along  very  easily  without  them,  and  indeed 
Mary  with  her  jealousies,  her  strange  sulky  temper  and 
sudden  sentimental  repentances  was  certainly  a  burden  and 
restraint.  As  to  the  little  girls  in  Polchester,  he  had 
frankly  found  them  tiresome  and  stupid,  thinking  of  them- 
selves, terrified  of  the  most  natural  phenomena  and  un- 
truthful in  their  statements.  He  had  been  always  inde- 
pendent and  reserved  with  everyone,  and  had  never,  in  all 
his  life,  had  a  close  friend,  but  there  had  been,  especially 

204 


THE  AWAKENIITG  OF  CHAELOTTE      205 

of  late,  boys  with  whom  it  had  been  amusing  to  spend  an 
hour  or  two,  and  since  his  fight  with  the  Dean's  Ernest 
he  had  thought  that  it  would  be  rather  interesting  to  make 
a  further  trial  of  strength  with  whomsoever  .  .  . 

Girls  were  stupid,  uninteresting,  conceited  and  slow.  He 
never,  in  all  his  life,  wanted  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
girls.  But  Charlotte  Le  Page  was  another  matter.  She 
had,  in  the  first  place,  become  quite  a  tradition  in  the  Cole 
family.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  landowner, 
who  always  spent  his  holidays  in  Rafiel.  She  and  her 
very  beautiful,  very  superior  mother  had  been  seen  on 
many  occasions  by  the  Coles  driving  about  the  Glebeshire 
roads  in  a  fine  and  languid  manner,  a  manner  to  which  the 
Coles  knew,  very  well,  they  themselves  could  never  attain. 
Then  Mrs.  Cole  had  called,  and  Mrs.  Le  Page  and  Char- 
lotte had  come  to  tea  at  Cow  Farm.  This  had  been  a  year 
ago,  when  Jeremy  had  been  only  seven;  nevertheless,  he 
had  been  present  during  the  first  part  of  the  ceremony,  and 
Charlotte  had  struck  him  as  entirely  amazing. 

He  had  simply  gazed  at  her  with  his  mouth  open,  for- 
getting all  his  good  manners.  She  was  at  this  time  nine 
or  ten  years  of  age  but  verj'-  small  and,  as  they  say  of  the 
most  modern  kind  of  doll,  "perfect  in  every  particular." 
She  had  wonderful  hair  of  a  bright  rippling  gold;  her 
cheeks  were  pink  and  her  eyes  were  blue,  and  she  was  so 
beautifully  dressed  that  you  could  not  take  in  details  but 
must  simply  surrender  yourself  to  a  cloudy  film  of  white 
or  blue,  with  everything  so  perfectly  in  its  place  that  it 
seemed  to  the  rough  and  ready  Jeremy  quite  unearthly. 
Of  course  she  had  to  be  very  careful  how  she  walked,  when 
she  sat  down,  in  what  way  she  moved  her  hands  and  feet, 
and  how  she  blew  her  nose.     It  was  wonderful  to  see 


206  JEREMY 

her  do  these  things,  she  did  them  so  naturally  and  yet 
always  with  a  sense  of  an  effort  overcome  for  the 
good  of  humanity.  Her  mother  never  ceased  to  empty 
praises  at  her  feet,  appealing  to  visitors  with:  "Isn't? 
Charlotte  too  lovely  to-day?"  or  "Really,  Mrs.  Cole,  did 
you  ever  see  anything  like  Charlotte's  hair?"  or  "Just  a 
moment,  Mrs.  Cole,  I'm  sure  you've  never  seen  such  hands 
and  feet  on  any  human  being  before !" — and  it  was  impos- 
sible to  tell  whether  or  no  Charlotte  was  moved  by  these 
praises,  because  she  never  said  anything  at  all.  She  was 
almost  completely  silent,  and  once,  at  the  tea-gathering  in 
Cow  Farm,  when  she  suddenly  said:  "I'm  tired,  Mama," 
Jeremy  nearly  jumped  from  his  chair,  so  astonished  he 
was. 

Jeremy  had,  during  the  year  that  intervened  between 
that  visit  and  this,  sometimes  thought  of  Charlotte,  and  he 
had  looked  back  upon  her,  not  as  a  little  girl  but  as  some- 
thing strange,  fantastic,  wonderfully  coloured,  whom  it 
would  be  interesting  to  see  again.  He  wondered  why  Mary 
and  Helen  could  not  be  like  that,  instead  of  running  about 
and  screaming  and  becoming  red  in  the  face.  He  said 
once  to  Mary  that  she  should  imitate  Charlotte,  and  the 
scene  that  followed  was  terrible.  Mary,  from  that  mo- 
ment, hated  Charlotte  with  an  overpowering  hatred. 

Here  this  year  they  were  again,  Mrs.  Le  Page  with  her 
long  neck,  her  beautiful  pearl  ear-rings,  her  pale  watery 
eyes  and  her  tapering  fingers;  Charlotte  just  as  before, 
silent,  beautiful  and  precious.  There  was  again  a  tea- 
party  at  Cow  Farm,  and  on  this  occasion  Jeremy  was  asked 
to  show  Hamlet.  But  Hamlet  behaved  badly,  trying  to 
jump  upon  Charlotte's  white  frock  and  soil  her  blue  rib- 
bons.    Charlotte  screamed  exactly  as  a  doll  screams  when 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHARLOTTE      207 

you  press  it  in  tlie  stomach,  and  Hamlet  was  so  deeply 
astonished  at  the  unexpected  noise  that  he  stopped  his  bad 
behaviour,  sat  on  his  hind  legs,  and  gazed  up  at  her  with 
an  anxious  wondering  expression.  In  spite  of  this  unfor- 
tunate incident,  the  visit  went  off  well,  and  Mrs.  Cole 
said  that  she  had  never  seen  anything  so  lovely  as  Char- 
lotte, and  Mrs.  Le  Page  said,  "No,  had  anyone  ever  ?"  and 
Charlotte  never  turned  a  hair.  The  final  arrangement  was 
that  there  should  be  a  picnic  and  soon,  because  "Mr.  Le 
Page  has  to  return  to  Warwickshire  to  look  after  the  Estate 
— so  tiresome,  but  I've  no  doubt  it's  all  going  to  wi'ack 
and  ruin  without  him." 

After  the  picnic  had  been  arranged  the  Coles  were, 
frankly,  a  little  uneasy.  The  family  of  Le  Page  was  not 
the  easiest  in  the  world  to  entertain,  and  the  thought  of  a 
whole  day  with  Mr.  Le  Page,  who  was  a  very  black,  very 
silent  gentleman  and  looked  as  though  he  were  always 
counting  sums  over  in  his  head,  was  truly  alarming.  More- 
over, in  the  ordinary  way,  a  picnic,  which  depended  so 
entirely  for  its  success  on  the  weather,  was  no  great  risk, 
because  the  Coles  were  indifferent  to  rain,  as  all  true 
Glebeshire  people  must  be.  But  that  the  Le  Pages  should 
be  wet  was  quite  another  affair ;  the  thought  of  a  dripping 
Mrs.  Le  Page  was  intolerable,  but  of  a  dripping  Charlotte 
quite  impossible ;  moreover,  the  plain  but  excellent  food — 
pasties,  saffron  cake,  apples  and  ginger  beer — enjoyed  by 
the  Coles  seemed  quite  too  terrestrial  for  the  Le  Pages. 
Mrs.  Le  Page  and  ginger  beer!  Charlotte  and  pasties! 
.  .  .  nevertheless,  the  invitation  had  been  given  and  ac- 
cepted.     The    Coles    could    but   i^^ixiously    inspect    the 


208  JEKEMY 

II 

There  was  another  reason  why  Jeremy  looked  forward 
to  the  picnic  with  impatience.  A  funny  old  lady,  named 
Miss  Henhouse,  who  lived  near  Cow  Farm  in  a  little 
cottage  all  by  herself,  called  sometimes  upon  the  Coles  and 
told  them  stories  about  the  people  and  the  place,  which 
made  them  "sit  up"  in  their  chairs."  She  was  an  old  lady 
with  sharp  eyes,  a  black  moustache  and  a  double  chin,  wore 
an  old  shabby  bonnet,  grey  mittens  and  large  shoes  which 
banged  after  her  as  she  walked.  She  leant  on  a  cane  with 
a  silver  knob  to  it,  and  she  wore  a  huge  cameo  brooch  on 
her  breast  with  a  miniature  of  herself  inside  it.  She  was 
what  is  called  in  novels  "a  character."  There  was  no  one 
who  knew  so  much  about  Rafiel  and  its  neighbourhood; 
she  had  lived  here  for  ever,  her  father  had  been  a  friend  of 
Welling-ton's  and  had  known  members  of  the  local  Press 
Gang  intimately.  It  was  from  her  that  Jeremy  heard,  in 
detail,  the  famous  story  of  the  Scarlet  Admiral.  It  was,  of 
course,  in  any  case,  a  well-known  story,  and  Jeremy  had 
often  heard  it  before,  but  Miss  Henhouse  made  it  a  new,  a 
most  vivid  and  realistic  thing.  She  sat  forward  in  her 
chair,  leaning  on  her  silver-headed  cane,  her  eyes  staring 
in  front  of  her,  her  two  chins  bobbing,  gazing,  gazing  as 
though  it  all  had  happened  before  her  very  nose. 

How  one  night  outside  Eafiel  Cove  there  was  a  terrible 
storm,  and  on  the  morning  afterwards  a  wonderful,  smil- 
ing calm,  and  how  the  village  idiot,  out  for  his  early  morn- 
ing stroll,  saw  a  splendid  ship  riding  beyond  the  Cove,  a 
ship  of  gold  with  sails  of  silk  and  jewelled  masts.  As  he 
watched,  from  the  ship  a  boat  pushed  out,  and  then  landed 
on  the  sand  of  the  Cove  a  wonderful  company  in  cocked 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHAKLOTTE      209 

hats  of  gold  lace,  plush  breeches  of  red,  and  shoes  with 
diamond  buckles.  The  leader  of  them  was  a  little  man 
with  a  vast  cocked  hat  and  a  splendid  sword  all  studded 
with  jewels.  The  fool,  peering  over  the  hedge,  saw  him 
give  orders  to  his  men,  and  then  walk,  alone,  up  the  little 
winding  path,  to  the  cliff-top.  Straight  up  the  path  he 
came,  then  right  past  the  fool  himself,  standing  at  last 
upon  the  turnip  field  of  FaiTuer  Ede,  one  of  the  greatest 
of  the  farmers  of  those  parts.  And  here  he  waited,  staring 
out  to  sea,  his  arms  crossed,  his  eyes  very  fierce  and  very, 
very  sad.  Then  a  second  time  from  the  golden  ship  a  boat 
pushed  out,  cutting  its  way  through  the  glassy  sea — and 
there  landed  on  the  beach  a  young  man,  very  beautiful,  in 
a  suit  of  blue  and  gold,  and  he,  without  a  glance  at  the 
waiting  sailors,  also  slowly  climbed  the  sea-path,  and  at  last 
he  too  reached  Farmer  Ede's  turnip  field.  Then  he  and 
the  Scarlet  Admiral  bowed  to  one  another,  very  beautifully, 
very  sadly,  and  very,  very  fiercely.  As  the  sun  rose  high 
in  the  sky,  as  the  cows  passed  clumsily  down  the  lane  be- 
hind the  field  so  the  fool,  with  eyes  staring  and  heart 
thumping,  saw  these  two  fight  a  duel  to  the  death.  There 
could  be  no  question,  from  the  first,  how  it  would  end.  The 
beautiful  young  man  in  his  fine  blue  suit  and  his  white 
cambric  shirt  had  despair  upon  his  face.  He  knew  that  his 
hour  had  come.  And  the  eyes  of  the  Scarlet  Admiral 
were  ever  sadder  and  ever  fiercer.  Then,  with  a  sudden 
move,  a  little  turn  of  his  agile  body,  the  Scarlet  Admiral 
had  the  young  man  through  the  breast.  The  young  man 
threw  up  his  arms  and  cried ;  and  as  the  Scarlet  Admiral 
withdrew  his  sword,  dripping  with  blood  from  his  body, 
the  young  man  fell  backwards  over  the  cliff  into  the  sea. 
Then  the  Scarlet  Admiral  wiped  his  sword  on  the  grass 


210  JEKEMY 

and,  slowlv  and  sadly,  walked  down  the  cliff-path  even  as 
he  had  walked  up.  He  joined  his  men,  they  found  their 
boat,  pushed  out  to  their  ship,  and  even  as  they  landed  upon 
her  she  had  disappeared.  A  moment  later  the  fool  saw  the 
parson  of  Eafiel  Church  coming  round  the  corner  for  his 
morning  bathe,  and  two  minutes  afterwards  nothing  human 
was  to  he  seen  save  the  naked  limbs  of  the  parson  and  his 
little  bundle  of  black  clothes  lying  neatly  upon  a  stone. 
Then  the  fool  ran  all  the  way  home  to  his  mother  who  was 
a  widow,  and  sat  and  cried  and  cried  for  the  beautiful 
young  man  who  had  been  slain,  nor  would  he  eat,  nor  taste 
the  excellent  Eafiel  beer,  and  he  pined  away,  and  at  last  he 
died,  first  telling  this  history  to  his  mother,  who,  like  all 
widows,  was  a  garulous  woman  and  loved  a  good 
story.  .  .  . 

Impossible  to  imagine  with  what  life  and  fire  old  Miss 
Henhouse  gave  this  history.  You  could  see  with  your  own 
eyes  the  golden  ship,  the  diamond  buckles  of  the  Scarlet 
Admiral,  the  young  man's  sad  eyes,  the  parson's  black 
clothes.  When  she  had  finished  it  seemed  to  Jeremy  that 
it  must  have  been  just  so.  She  told  him  that  now  on  a  sum- 
mer morning  or  evening  the  Scarlet  Admiral  might  still  be 
seen,  climbing  the  cliff-path,  wiping  his  sword  upon  the 
grass,  gazing  out  with  sad  eyes  to  sea.  Jeremy  swore  to 
himself  that  on  the  next  occasion  of  visiting  the  Cove  he 
would  watch  ...  he  would  watch — but  to  no  single  hu- 
man being  would  he  speak  anything  of  this. 

This  was  the  second  reason  why  he  had  looked  forward 
so  eagerly  to  the  sea-picnic. 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHARLOTTE      211 


III 


The  day  arrived,  and  it  was  marvellously  fine — one  of 
those  days  in  August  vt^hen  heat  possesses  the  world  and 
holds  it  tranced  and  still,  but  has  in  the  very  strength  of 
its  possession  some  scent  of  the  decay  and  chill  of  autumn 
that  is  to  follow  so  close  upon  its  heels.  There  was  no 
breeze,  no  wind  from  the  sea,  only  a  sky  utterly  without 
cloud  and  a  world  without  sound. 

Punctually  at  eleven  of  the  morning  the  splendid  Le 
Page  equipage  arrived  at  Cow  Farm.  Splendid  it  was  1 
A  large  wagonette,  with  a  stout  supercilious  fellow  on  the 
box  who  sniffed  at  the  healthy  odours  of  the  farm  and 
stared  haughtily  at  Mrs.  Monk  as  though  she  should  be 
ashamed  to  be  alive.  The  Coles  had  provided  a  small 
plump  "jingle"  with  a  small  plump  pony,  their  regular 
conveyance;  the  pony  was  Bob,  and  he  would  not  go  up 
hills  unless  persuaded  with  sugar,  but  Jeremy  loved  him 
and  would  not  have  ridden  behind  any  other  steed  in  the 
whole  world.  How  contemptuously  the  big  black  horses  of 
the  wagonette  gazed  down  their  nostrils  at  Bob,  and  how 
superbly  Mrs.  Le  Page,  sitting  very  upright  under  her 
white  sunshade,  greeted  Mrs.  Cole! 

"Dear  Mrs.  Cole.  Such  a  hot  morning,  isn't  it  ?  Lovely, 
of  course,  but  so  hot." 

"I'm  afraid,"  Jeremy  heard  his  mother  say,  "that  your 
carriage  will  never  get  down  the  Eafiel  Lane,  Mrs.  Le 
Page.    "We  hoped  you'd  come  in  the  dog-cart.     Plenty  of 


room.  .  .  ." 


Superb  to  witness  the  fashion  in  which  Mrs.  Le  Page 
gazed  at  the  dog-cart. 


212  JEKEMY 

''For  all  of  us?  .  .  .  Dear  Mrs.  Cole,  I  scarcely 
think And  Charlotte's  frock  .  .  ." 

Then  Jeremy  turned  his  eyes  to  Charlotte.  '  She  sat 
under  a  miniature  sunshade  of  white  silk  and  lace,  a  vision 
of  loveliness.  She  was  a  shimmer  of  white,  a  little  white 
cloud  that  had  settled  for  a  moment  upon  the  seat  of  the 
carriage  to  allow  the  sun  to  dance  upon  it,  to  caress  it  with 
fingers  of  fire,  so  to  separate  it  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
for  ever  as  something  too  precious  to  be  touched.  Jeremy 
had  never  seen  anything  so  lovely. 

He  blushed  and  scraped  his  boots  the  one  against  the 
other. 

"And  this  is  Jeremy  ?"  said  Mrs.  Le  Page  as  though  she 
said:  "And  this  is  where  you  keep  your  little  pigs,  Mr. 
Monk?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jeremy,  blushing. 

"Charlotte,  you  know  Jeremy.     You  must  be  friends." 

"Yes,"  said  Charlotte,  without  moving.  Then  Jeremy 
tumbled  into  the  stern  gaze  of  Mr.  Le  Page  who,  arrayed 
as  he  was  in  a  very  smart  suit  of  the  whitest  flannels, 
looked  with  his  black  beard  and  fierce  black  eyebrows  like 
a  pirate  king  disguised. 

"How  are  you  ?"  said  Mr.  Le  Page  in  a  deep  bass  voice. 

"Very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Jeremy. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Mrs.  Cole's  heart  sadly  misgave  her 
when  she  saw  the  Le  Page  family  all  sitting  up  so  new  and 
so  bright  in  their  new  and  bright  carriage.  She  thought 
of  the  simple  preparations  that  had  been  made — the  pasties, 
the  saffron  buns  and  the  ginger  beer ;  she  looked  around  her 
at  the  very  plain  but  useful  garments  worn  by  her  family, 
her  husband  in  faded  grey  flannel  trousers  and  a  cricket- 
ing shirt,  Helen  and  Mary  in  the  simplest  blue  cotton,  and 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHARLOTTE      213 

Jeremy  in  his  two-year-old  sailor  suit.  She  had  intended 
to  bring  their  bathing  things  in  a  bundle,  but  now  she  put 
them  aside.  It  was  obvious  that  the  Le  Pages  had  no  in- 
tention of  bathing.  She  sighed  and  foresaw  a  difficult  day 
ahead  of  her. 

It  was  evident  that  the  Le  Pages  did  not  intend  to  come 
one  step  farther  into  Cow  Farm  than  was  necessary. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Cole,  on  a  hot  day — how  can  you  endure 
the  smells  of  a  farm  .  .  .  such  a  charming  farm,  too,  with 
all  its  cows  and  pigs,  but  in  this  weather.  .  .  .  Charlotte 
darling,  you  don't  feel  the  heat?  No?  Hold  your  sun- 
shade a  little  more  to  the  right,  love.  That's  right.  She 
was  not  quite  the  thing  last  night,  Mrs.  Cole.  I  had 
some  doubts  about  bringing  her,  but  I  knew  you'd  all  be 
so  disappointed.  She's  looking  rather  lovely  to-day,  don't 
you  think  ?  You  must  forgive  a  mother's  partiality.  .  .  . 
Oh,  you're  not  bringing  that  little  dog,  are  you? 
Surely " 

Jeremy,  who  had  from  the  first  hated  Mrs.  Le  Page, 
forgot  his  shyness  and  brought  out  fiercely: 

"Of  course  he's  coming.  Hamlet  always  goes  every- 
where with  us." 

"Hamlet !"  said  Mr.  Le  Page  in  his  deep  bass  voice. 

"What  a  strange  name  for  a  dog!"  said  Mrs.  Le  Page 
in  tones  of  vague  distrust. 

At  last  it  was  settled  that  one  member  of  the  Cole  party 
should  ride  with  the  Le  Pages,  and  Mary  was  selected. 
Poor  Mary !  inevitably  chosen  when  something  impleasant 
must  be  done.  To-day  it  was  especially  hard  for  her, 
because  she  entertained  so  implacable  a  hatred  for  the 
lovely  Charlotte  and  looked,  it  must  be  confessed,  so  plain 
and  shabby  by  the  side  of  her.     Indeed,  to  any  observer 


214  JEREMY 

■witli  a  heart  it  must  have  been  touching  to  see  Mary  driven 
away  in  that  magnificent  black  carriage,  staring  with  ago- 
nised hostility  in  front  of  her  through  her  large  spectacles, 
compelled  to  balance  herself  exactly  between  the  magnifi- 
cent sunshade  of  Mrs.  Le  Page  and  the  smaller  but  also 
magnificent  sunshade  of  the  lovely  Charlotte.  Mrs.  Cole, 
glancing  in  that  direction,  may  have  felt  with  a  pang  that 
she  would  never  be  able  to  make  her  children  handsome 
and  gay  as  she  would  like  to  do — ^but  it  was  certainly  a 
pang  of  only  a  moment's  duration. 

She  would  not  have  exchanged  her  Mary  for  a  wagon- 
load  of  Charlottes. 

And  Jeremy,  bumping  along  in  the  jingle,  also  felt 
the  contrast.  Why  could  not  Mary  wear  her  straw  hat 
straight,  and  why  must  she  have  elastic  under  her  chin  ? 
"Why  did  she  look  so  cross  and  so  stupid  ?  Why  did  she 
bother  him  so  with  her  worries?  Charlotte  would  never 
worry  him.  She  would  just  sit  there,  looking  beautiful, 
with  her  golden  hair,  and  blue  eyes  and  pink  cheeks.  ISText 
week  was  to  be  Miss  Jones's  birthday,  and  in  preparation 
for  this  he  had  bought  for  her  in  Polchester  a  silver 
thimble.  He  wondered  whether  he  would  not  give  Char- 
lotte this  thimble  instead  of  Miss  Jones.  He  could  give 
Miss  Jones  some  old  thing  he  would  find  somewhere,  or 
he  would  go  out  and  pick  for  her  some  flowers.  She  would 
be  pleased  with  anything.  He  wondered  what  Charlotte 
would  say  when  he  gave  her  the  thimble.  She  would  like 
it,  of  course.  She  would  smile.  She  would  open  her  eyes 
and  look  at  him.  Fortunately  he  had  the  thimble  even 
now  in  his  pocket.  He  had  bought  it  when  he  was  wearing 
this  same  suit.  Yes,  he  would  give  it  to  her.  As  he 
decided  this  he  looked  at  Miss  Jones  guiltily,  but  she 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHAKLOTTE      215 

was  making  such  odd  faces  as  she  squinted  to  escape  from 
the  sun  that  he  did  not  feel  ashamed. 

They  came  to  that  steep  hill  just  beyond  Garth  woods, 
and  Bob,  of  course,  refused  to  move.  The  superb  Le  Page 
affair  dashed  past  them,  shouted  something  at  them,  and 
disappeared  over  the  brow  of  the  hill.  The  last  thing  to 
be  seen  of  them  were  the  fierce  despairing  eyes  of  the 
imprisoned  Mary.  A  strange  sensation  of  relief  instantly 
settled  upon  the  Coles.  For  a  moment  they  were  alone; 
they  began  slowly  to  walk  up  the  hill,  dragging  with  them 
the  reluctant  Bob.  About  them  was  peace,  absolute  and 
unstained.  The  hard  glitter  of  the  day  shone  upon  the 
white  road,  but  behind  them  the  wood  was  dark  and  cool, 
a  green  cloud  against  the  sky.  Behind  the  steep  hedges 
the  harvesters  were  moving.  In  the  air  a  lark  was  singing, 
and  along  the  ditch  at  the  road  side  a  tiny  stream  tumbled. 
And  beyond  these  sounds  there  was  a  vast  tranquil  silence. 

The  Coles  moved  up  the  hill  very  slowly,  only  Hamlet 
racing  ahead  to  find  spots  of  shadow  where  he  might  lie 
down  and  pant.  They  would  not  confess  to  themselves  that 
this  promised  to  be  the  happiest  moment  of  their  day. 
They  went  bravely  forward. 

On  the  bend  of  the  hill  the  Le  Pages  were  waiting  for 
them.  What  Mrs.  Cole  had  foreseen  had  in  truth  occurred. 
The  Le  Page  carriage  would  not  go  down  the  Rafiel  Lane. 
No,  it  would  not.  .  .  .  Nothing  would  induce  it  to. 

"James,"  said  Mrs.  Le  Page  to  her  stout  and  disdainful 
attendant. 

"Nothing,  ma'am,"  said  James. 

"Dear  me,  dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Le  Page.  "Well  then, 
we  must  walk,"  said  the  deep  despairing  voice  of  the 
Pirate  King. 


216  JEREMY 

And  walk  they  did. 

That  walk  was,  as  Mrs.  Cole  afterwards  said,  "a  pity," 
because  it  destroyed  the  Le  Page  tempers  when  the  day 
was  scarcely  begun.  Mr.  Le  Page  was,  it  was  quickly 
descried,  not  intended  for  walking.  Strong  and  fierce 
though  he  seemed,  heat  instantly  crumpled  him  up.  The 
perfect  crease  of  his  white  trousers  vanished,  his  collar  was 
no  longer  spotless,  little  beads  of  perspiration  appeared 
almost  at  once  on  his  forehead,  and  his  black  beard  dripped 
moisture.  Mrs.  Le  Page,  with  her  skirts  raised,  walked 
as  though  she  were  passing  through  the  Valley  of  Destruc- 
tion ;  every  step  was  a  risk  and  a  danger,  and  the  difficulty 
of  holding  her  skirts  and  her  sunshade  at  the  same  time, 
and  of  seeing  that  her  shoes  were  not  soiled  and  her  hat  not 
caught  by  an  offending  bough  gave  her  face  an  expression 
of  desperate  despair. 

There  was,  unfortunately,  one  spot  very  deep  down  in 
the  lane  where  the  ground  was  never  dry  even  in  the 
height  of  the  hottest  summer. 

A  little  stream  ran  here  across  the  path,  and  the  ground 
on  either  side  was  soft  and  sodden.  Mrs.  Le  Page,  strug- 
gling to  avoid  an  overhanging  branch,  stepped  into  the 
mud ;  one  foot  stuck  there,  and  it  needed  Mr.  Cole's  strong 
arm  to  pull  her  out  of  it. 

"Charlotte!  Charlotte!"  she  cried.  "Don't  let  Char- 
lotte step  into  that !  Mr.  Cole !  Mr.  Cole !  I  charge  you 
— my  child !"  Charlotte  was  conveyed  across,  but  the 
damage  was  done.  One  of  Mrs.  Le  Page's  beautiful  shoes 
was  thick  with  mud. 

When,  therefore,  the  party,  climbing  out  of  the  Lane, 
came  suddenly  upon  the  path  leading  down  to  the  Cove, 
with  the  sea,  like  a  blue  cloud  in  front  of  them,  no  one 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHARLOTTE      217 

exclaimed  at  the  view.  It  was  a  very  beautiful  view — 
one  pf  the  finest  of  its  kind  in  the  United  Kingdom,  the 
high  rocks  closing  in  the  Cove  and  the  green  hills  closing 
in  the  rocks.  On  the  hill  to  the  right  was  the  Eafiel  Old 
Church,  with  its  gi'avcyard  that  ran  to  the  very  edge  of 
the  cliff,  and  behind  the  Cove  was  a  stream  and  a  green 
orchard  and  a  little  wood.  The  sand  of  the  Cove  was 
bright  gold,  and  the  low  rocks  to  either  side  of  it  were  a 
dark  red — the  handsomest  place  in  the  world,  with  the 
water  so  clear  that  you  could  see  down,  far  down,  into 
green  caverns  laced  with  silver  sand.  Unfortunately,  at 
the  moment  when  the  Coles  and  their  friends  beheld  it, 
it  was  blazing  in  the  sun;  soon  the  sun  would  pass  and, 
during  the  whole  afternoon,  half  of  it  at  least  would  lie 
in  shadow,  but  the  Le  Pages  could  not  be  expected  to  think 
of  that. 

The  basket  was  unloaded  from  the  jingle  and  carried 
down  to  the  beach  by  Mr.  Cole  and  Jim.  Jeremy,  finding 
himself  at  the  side  of  the  lovely  Charlotte,  was  convulsed 
with  shyness,  the  more  that  he  knew  that  the  unhappy 
Mary  was  listening  with  jealous  ears.  Charlotte,  walking 
like  Agag,  "delicately,"  had  a  piteous  expression  in  her 
eyes  as  though  she  were  being  led  to  the  torture. 

Jeremy  coughed  and  began:  "We  always  come  here 
every  year.     Don't  you  like  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  miserably. 

"And  we  paddle  and  bathe.    Do  you  like  bathing  ?" 

"Going  into  the  sea  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  no !  Mother  says  I  mustn't,  because  it'll  hurt  my 
hair.    Do  you  like  my  hair  ?" 


218  JEKEMY 

"Yes,"  said  Jeremy,  blushing  at  so  direct  an  invitation 
to  compliment. 

^'Mother  says  I've  got  to  be  very  careful  of  my  hair 
because  it's  my  chief  beauty." 

"Yes,"  said  Jeremy. 

"I  have  a  maid,  Alice,  and  she  brushes  a  v^hole  hour 
every  morning  and  a  whole  hour  every  evening." 

"Don't  you  get  very  tired  ?"  asked  Jeremy.  "I  know 
I  should." 

"Mother  says  if  you  have  such  beautiful  hair  you  must 
take  trouble  with  it,"  Charlotte  gravely  replied. 

Her  voice  was  so  like  the  voice  of  a  parrot  that  Jeremy's 
grandmother  had  once  possessed  that  it  didn't  seem  as 
though  a  human  being  was  speaking  at  all.  They  were 
near  the  beach  now  and  could  see  the  blue  slipping  in, 
turning  into  white  bubbles,  then  slipping  out  again. 

"Do  you  like  my  frock  ?"  said  Charlotte. . 

"Yes,"  said  Jeremy. 

"It  was  bought  in  London.  All  my  clothes  are  bought 
in  London." 

"Mary's  and  Helen's  aren't,"  said  Jeremy  with  some 
faint  idea  of  protecting  his  sisters.  "They're  bought  in 
Polchester." 

"Mother  says,"  said  Charlotte,  "that  if  you're  not  pretty 
it  doesn't  matter  where  you  buy  your  clothes." 

They  arrived  on  the  beach  and  stared  about  them.  It 
became  at  once  a  great  question  as  to  where  Mrs.  Le  Page 
would  sit.  She  could  not  sit  on  the  sand  which  looked 
damp,  nor  equally,  of  course,  on  a  rock  that  was  spiky 
and  hard.  What  to  do  with  her  ?  She  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  beach,  still  holding  up  her  skirts,  gazing  desperately 
about  her,  looking  first  at  one  spot  and  then  at  another. 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHARLOTTE      219 

"Oh,  dear,  the  heat !"  she  exclaimed.  "Is  there  no 
shade  anywhere?  Perhaps  in  that  farm-house  over 
there.  .  .  ."  It  was  probable  enough  that  no  member  of 
the  Colo  family  would  have  minded  banishing  Mrs.  Lo 
Page  into  the  farmhouse,  but  it  would  have  meant  that  the 
whole  party  must  accompany  her.  That  was  impossible. 
They  had  come  for  a  picnic  and  a  picnic  they  would  have. 

Mrs.  Cole  watched,  with  growing  agitation,  the  whole 
situation.  She  saw  from  her  husband's  face  that  he  was 
rapidly  losing  his  temper,  and  she  had  learnt,  after  many 
experiences,  that  when  he  lost  his  temper  he  was  capable 
of  anything.  That  does  not  mean,  of  course,  that  he  ever 
was  angry  to  the  extent  of  swearing  or  striking  out  with 
his  fists — no,  he  simply  gTcw  sadder,  and  sadder,  and 
sadder,  and  this  melancholy  had  a  way  of  reducing  to 
despair  all  the  people  with  whom  he  happened  to  be  at 
the  time. 

"What  does  everyone  say  to  our  having  lunch  now?" 
cried  Mrs.  Cole  cheerfully.  "It's  after  one,  and  I'm  sure 
everyone's  hungry." 

No  one  said  anything,  so  preparations  were  begun.  A 
minute  piece  of  shade  was  found  for  Mrs.  Le  Page,  and 
here  she  sat  on  a  flat  piece  of  rock  with  her  skirts  drawn 
close  about  her  as  though  she  were  afraid  of  rats  or  crabs. 
A  tablecloth  was  laid  on  the  sand  and  the  provisions 
spread  out — pasties  for  everybody,  egg-sandwiches,  seed- 
cake, and  jam-puifs — and  ginger  beer.  It  looked  a  fine 
feast  when  it  was  all  there,  and  Mrs.  Cole,  as  she  gave 
the  final  touch  to  it  by  placing  a  drinking  glass  containing 
two  red  rose-buds  in  the  middle,  felt  proud  of  her  efforts 
and  hoped  that  after  all  the  affair  might  pass  off  bravely. 
But  alas,  how  easily  the  proudest  plans  fall  to  the  ground. 


220  JEEEMY 

''I  hope,  Alice,  you  haven't  forgotten  the  salt!" 

Instantly  Mrs.  Cole  knew  that  she  had  forgotten  it. 
She  could  see  herself  standing  there  in  Mrs.  Monk's  kitchen 
forgetting  it.  How  could  she?  And  Mrs.  Monk,  how 
could  she  ?    It  had  never  been  forgotten  before. 

''Oh,  no,"  she  said  wildly.  "Oh,  no !  I'm  sure  I  can't 
have  forgotten  it." 

She  plunged  about,  her  red  face  all  creased  with  anx- 
iety, her  hat  on  one  side,  her  hands  searching  everywhere, 
under  the  tablecloth,  in  the  basket,  amongst  the  knives 
and  forks. 

"Jim,  you  haven't  dropped  anything?" 

"Ko,  mum.  Beggin'  your  pardon,  mum,  the  basket  was 
closed,  so  to  speak — closed  it  was." 

ISoy  she  knew  that  she  had  forgotten  it. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Mrs.  Le  Page,  I'm  afraid " 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Cole!  What  does  it  matter?  ]^ot  in 
the  least,  I  assure  you.  In  this  heat  it's  impossible  to  feel 
hungry,  isn't  it?  I  assure  you  I  don't  feel  as  though  I 
could  touch  a  thing.  A  little  fruit,  perhaps — an  apple  or 
a  peach " 

Fruit?  Why  hadn't  Mrs.  Cole  brought  fruit?  She 
might  so  easily  have  done  so,  and  she  had  never  thought 
about  it.  They  themselves  were  rather  tired  of  fruit,  and 
so 

"I'm  afraid  we've  no  fruit,  but  an  egg-sandwich " 

"Eggs  need  salt,  don't  you  think  ?  Not  that  it  matters 
in  the  very  least,  but  so  that  you  shouldn't  think  me  fussy. 
Eeally,  dear  Mrs.  Cole,  I  never  felt  less  hungry  in  my 
life.    Just  a  drop  of  milk  and  I'm  perfectly  satisfied." 

"Jeremy  shall  run  up  to  the  farm  for  the  milk.  You 
don't  mind,  Jeremy  dear,  do  you  ?    It's  only  a  step.    Just 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHARLOTTE      221 

take  this  sixpence,  dear,  and  say  we'll  send  the  jug  back 
this  afternoon  if  they'll  spare  one." 

Jeremy  did  mind.  He  was  enjoying  his  luncheon,  and 
he  was  gazing  at  Charlotte,  and  he  was  teasing  Hamlet 
with  scraps — he  was  very  happy.  Nevertheless,  he  started 
off. 

So  soon  as  he  left  the  sands  the  noise  of  the  sea  was 
shut  off  from  him,  and  he  was  climbing  the  little  green 
path  up  which  the  Scarlet  Admiral  had  once  stalked. 

Suddenly  he  remembered — in  his  excitement  about 
Charlotte  he  had  forgotten  the  Admiral.  He  stood  for  a 
moment,  listening.  The  green  hedge  shut  off  the  noise 
of  the  sea — only  above  his  head  some  birds  were  twittering. 
He  fancied  that  he  heard  footsteps,  then  that  beyond  the 
hedge  something  was  moving.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
birds  were  also  listening  for  something.  "Well,  it's  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon,  anyway."  He  thought  to  himself, 
"He  never  comes  there — only  in  the  morning  or  evening," 
but  he  hurried  forward  after  that,  wishing  that  he  had 
called  to  Hamlet  to  accompany  him.  It  was  a  pleasant 
climb  to  the  farm  through  the  gi'een  orchard,  and  he  found 
at  the  farm  door  an  agreeable  woman  who  smiled  at  him 
when  she  gave  him  the  milk.  He  had  to  come  down  the 
hill  carefully,  lest  the  milk  should  be  spilt.  He  walked 
along  very  happily,  humming  to  himself  and  thinking  in  a 
confused  summer  afternoon  kind  of  manner  of  Charlotte, 
Hamlet,  Mrs.  Le  Page  and  himself.  "Shall  I  give  her 
the  thimble  or  shan't  I?  I  could  take  her  to  the  pools 
where  the  little  crabs  are.  She'd  like  them.  I  wonder 
whether  we're  going  to  bathe.  Mrs.  Le  Page  will  look 
funny  bathing.  .  .  ."  Then  he  was  in  the  green  lane 
again,  and  at  once  his  discomfort  returned  to  him,  and  he 


222  JEKEMY 

looked  around  his  shoulder  and  into  the  hedges,  and  stopped 
once  and  again  to  listen.  There  was  no  sound.  The  birds, 
it  seemed,  had  all  fallen  to  sleep.  The  hedges,  he  thought, 
were  closer  about  him.  It  was  very  hot  here,  with  no 
breeze  and  no  comforting  sound  of  the  sea.  "I  wonder 
whether  he  really  does  come,"  he  thought.  "It  must  be 
horrid  to  see  him — coming  quite  close."  And  the  thought 
of  the  Fool  also  frightened  him.  The  Fool  with  his 
tongue  out  and  his  shaking  legs,  like  the  idiot  who  lived 
near  the  Cathedral  at  home.  At  the  thought  of  this  Jeremy 
suddenly  took  to  his  legs  and  ran,  covering  the  top  of  his 
jug  with  his  hand ;  then,  when  he  came  out  on  to  the  strip 
of  grass  that  crossed  the  top  of  the  beach,  he  stopped, 
suddenly  ashamed  of  himself.  Scarlet  Admirals !  Scarlet 
Admirals!  How  could  there  be  Scarlet  Admirals  in  a 
world  that  also  contained  so  blazing  a  sun,  so  blue  a  sea, 
and  the  gorgeous  realities  of  the  Le  Page  family.  He 
arrived  at  the  luncheon  party  hot  and  proud  and  smiling, 
so  cheerful  and  stolid  and  agreeable  that  even  Mrs.  Le  Page 
was  compelled  to  say,  "Really,  Mrs.  Cole,  that's  a  very 
nice  little  boy  of  yours.  Come  here,  little  Jeremy,  and 
talk  to  me!"  How  deeply  he  hated  being  called  "little 
Jeremy"  only  Mary  and  Helen  knew.  Their  eyes  flew  to 
his  face  to  see  how  he  would  take  it.  He  took  it  very  well. 
He  sat  down  beside  Mrs.  Le  Page,  who  very  gracefully 
and  languidly  sipped  at  her  glass  of  milk. 

"How  old  are  you,  Jeremy  dear  ?"  she  asked  him. 

"Eight,"  he  answered,  wriggling. 

"What  a  nice  age !    And  one  day  you'll  go  to  school  ?" 

"In  September." 

"And  what  will  you  be  when  you're  a  man  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.    I'll  be  a  soldier,  perhaps." 


THE  AWAKENING  OE  CHARLOTTE      223 

*'0h,  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  like  to  bo  a  soldier  and 
kill  people." 

"Yes,  I  would.     There's  lots  of  people  I'd  like  to  kill." 

Mrs.  Le  Page  drew  her  skirts  back  a  little. 

"How  horrible!  I'm  sure  your  mother  wouldn't  like  to 
hear  that." 

But  Mr.  Cole  had  caught  the  last  words  of  the  dialogue 
and  interrupted  with : 

"But  what  could  be  finer,  Mrs.  Le  Page,  than  the  defence 
of  one's  country  ?  Would  you  have  our  young  lads  grow 
up  faint-hearted  and  fail  their  Motherland  when  she  calls  ? 
What  can  be  finer,  I  say,  than  to  die  for  Queen  and 
country  ?  Would  not  every  mother  have  her  son  shed  his 
blood  for  liberty  and  freedom?  .  .  .  No,  Jeremy,  not 
another.  You've  had  quite  enough.  It  would  indeed  be 
a  disheartening  sight  if  we  elders  were  to  watch  our  sons 
and  grandchildren  turning  their  swords  into  plough- 
shares  " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  shrill  cry  from  Mrs.  Le  Page : 

"Charlotte,  darling,  do  hold  your  sunshade  up.  All  the 
left  side  of  your  face  is  exposed.  That's  better,  dear.  I 
beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Cole." 

But  Mr.  Cole  was  offended. 

"I  hope  no  son  of  mine  will  ever  show  himself  a  faint 
heart,"  he  concluded  severely. 

The  luncheon,  in  fact,  had  been  a  most  dismal  failure. 
The  Coles  could  fling  their  minds  back  to  luncheons  on 
this  same  beach  that  had  been  simply  riotous  successes. 
What  fun  they  had  had!  What  games!  What  bathes? 
Now  the  very  sight  of  Mr.  Le  Page's  black  beard  was 
enough.  Even  Jeremy  felt  that  things  were  wrong.  Then 
he  looked  at  Charlotte  and  was  satisfied.     There  she  sat. 


224  JEREMY 

straight  and  stiff,  her  bands  on  her  lap,  her  hair  falling  in 
lovely  golden  ripples  down  her  back,  her  gaze  fixed  on 
distance.  Oh !  she  was  beautiful !  He  would  do  whatever 
she  told  him ;  he  would  give  her  Miss  JSToah  and  the  apple 

tree ;  he  would A  sound  disturbed  his  devotions.    He 

turned.    Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Le  Page  were  fast  asleep. 


IV 

"Children,"  whispered  Mrs.  Cole,  "very  quietly  now, 
so  that  you  don't  disturb  anyone,  run  off  to  the  farther 
beach  and  play.  Helen,  you'll  see  that  everything  is  all 
right,  won't  you  ?" 

It  was  only  just  in  time  that  Jeremy  succeeded  in 
strangling  Hamlet's  bark  into  a  snort,  and  even  then  they 
all  looked  round  for  a  moment  at  the  sleepers  in  the 
greatest  anxiety.  But  no,  they  had  not  been  disturbed. 
If  only  Mr.  Le  Page  could  have  known  what  he  resembled 
lying  there  with  his  mouth  open !  But  he  did  not  know. 
He  was  doubtless  dreaming  of  his  property. 

The  children  crept  away.  Charlotte  and  Jeremy  to- 
gether. Jeremy's  heart  beat  thickly.  At  last  he  had  ;^e: 
lovely  creature  in  his  charge.  It  was  true  that  he  did  not;  < 
quite  know  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  her,  and  that  even 
now,  in  the  height  of  his  admiration,  he  did  wish  that  she 
would  not  walk  as  though  she  were  treading  on  red-hot 
ploughshares,  and  that  she  could  talk  a  little  instead  of 
giving  little  shivers  of  apprehension  at  every  step. 

"I  must  say,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "she's  rather  silly 
in  some  ways.  Perhaps  it  wouldn't  be  fun  to  see  her 
always." 

They  turned  the  comer  round  a  projecting  finger  o£ 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHARLOTTE      225 

rock,  and  a  new  little  beach,  white  and  gleaming,  lay  in 
front  of  them. 

"Well,"  said  Jeremy,  "here  we  are.  What  shall  we 
play?" 

There  was  dead  silence. 

"We  might  play  pirates,"  he  continued.  "I'll  be  the 
pirate,  and  Mary  can  sit  on  that  rock  until  the  water 
comes  round  her,  and  Charlotte  shall  hide  in  that  cave " 

There  was  still  silence.  Looking  about  him,  he  discov- 
ered from  his  sisters'  countenances  that  they  were  resolved 
to  lend  no  kind  of  assistance,  and  he  then  from  that 
deduced  the  simple  fact  that  his  sisters  hated  Charlotte 
and  were  not  going  to  make  it  pleasant  for  her  in  any  way 
if  they  could  help  it.  Oh !  it  was  a  miserable  picnic !  The 
worst  that  he'd  ever  had. 

"It's  too  hot  to  play,"  said  Helen  loftily.  "I'm  going 
to  sit  down  over  there." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Mary. 

They  moved  away,  their  heads  in  the  air  and  their  legs 
ridiculously  stiff. 

Jeremy  gazed  at  Charlotte  in  distress.  It  was  very 
wicked  of  his  sisters  to  go  off  like  that,  but  it  was  also 
very  silly  of  Charlotte  to  stand  there  so  helplessly.  He 
was  beginning  to  think  that  perhaps  he  would  give  the 
thimble  to  Miss  Jones  after  all. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  and  see  the  pool  where  the  little 
crabs  are?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  her  upper  lip  trembling 
as  though  she  were  going  to  cry.  "I  want  to  go  home 
with  Mother." 

"You  can't  go  home,"  he  said  firmly,  "and  you  can't 
isee  your  mother,  because  she's  asleep." 


226  JEREMY 

"I've  made  my  shoes  dirty,"  she  said,  looking  down  at 
her  feet,  "and  I'm  so  tired  of  holding  my  sunshade." 

"I  should  shut  it  up,"  Jeremy  said  without  any  hesi- 
tation. "I  think  it's  a  silly  thing.  I'm  glad  I'm  not  a 
girl.     Do  you  have  to  take  it  with  you  everywhere?" 

"Xot  if  it's  raining.     Then  I  have  an  umbrella." 

"I  think  you'd  better  come  and  see  the  crabs,"  he 
settled.     "They're  only  just  over  there." 

She  moved  along  with  him  reluctantly,  looking  back 
continually  to  where  her  mother  ought  to  be. 

"Are  you  enjoying  yourself?"  Jeremy  asked  politely. 

"No,"  she  said,  without  any  hesitation,  "I  want  to  go 
home." 

"She's  as  selfish  as  anything,"  he  thought  to  himself. 
"We're  giving  the  party,  and  she  ought  to  have  said  'Yes' 
even  if  she  wasn't." 

"Do  you  like  my  dog?"  he  asked,  with  another  effort 
at  light  conversation. 

"ISTo,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  shiver.    "He's  ugly.'* 

"He  isn't  ugly,"  Jeremy  returned  indignantly.  "He 
isn't  perhaps  the  very  best  breed,  but  Uncle  Samuel  says 
that  that  doesn't  matter  if  he's  clever.  He's  better  than 
any  other  dog.  I  love  him  more  than  anybody.  He  isn't 
ugly !" 

"He  is,"  cried  Charlotte  with  a  kind  of  wail.  "Oh !  I 
want  to  go  home." 

"Well,  you  can't  go  home,"  he  answered  her  fiercely. 
"So  you  needn't  think  about  it." 

They  came  to  the  little  pools,  three  of  them,  now  clear 
as  crystal,  blue  on  their  surface,  with  green  depths  and 
red  shelving  rock. 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHAELOTTE      227 

"Now  you  sit  there,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "No  one  will 
touch  you.    The  crabs  won't  get  at  you." 

He  looked  about  him  and  noticed  with  surprise  where 
he  was.  He  was  sitting  on  the  farther  comer  of  the  very 
beach  where  the  Scarlet  Admiral  had  landed  with  his  men. 
It  was  out  there  beyond  that  bend  of  rock  that  the  won- 
derful ship  had  rode,  with  its  gold  and  silk,  its  jewelled 
masts  and  its  glittering  board.  Directly  opposite  to  him 
was  the  little  green  path  that  led  up  the  hill,  and  above  it 
the  very  field — Farmer  Ede's  field! 

For  a  long,  long  time  they  sat  there  in  silence.  He  for- 
got Charlotte  in  his  interest  over  his  discovery,  staring 
about  him  and  watching  how  quickly  the  August  afternoon 
was  losing  its  heat  and  colour,  so  that  already  a  little  cold 
autumnal  wind  was  playing  about  the  sand,  the  colours 
were  being  drawn  from  the  sky,  and  a  grey  web  was  slowly 
pulled  across  the  sea. 

"Now,"  he  said  cheerfully  at  last  to  Charlotte,  "I'll 
look  for  the  crabs." 

"I  hate  crabs,"  she  said.    "I  want  to  go  home." 

"You  can't  go  home,"  he  answered  furiously.  "What's 
the  good  of  saying  that  over  and  over  again  ?  You  aren't 
going  yet,  so  it's  no  use  saying  you  are." 

"You're  a  horrid  little  boy,"  she  brought  out  with  a  kind 
of  inanimate  sob. 

He  did  not  reply  to  that ;  he  was  still  trying  to  behave 
like  a  gentleman.  How  could  he  ever  have  liked  her? 
Why,  her  hair  was  not  so  much  after  all.  What  was  hair 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it?  Mary  got  on  quite  well 
with  hers,  ugly  though  it  was.  She  was  stupid,  stupid, 
stupid !  She  was  like  someone  dead.  As  he  searched  for 
the  crabs  that  weren't  there  he  felt  his  temper  growing.. 


228  JEREMY 

Soon  lie  would  lead  her  back  to  her  mother  and  leave  her 
there  and  never  see  her  again. 

But  this  was  not  the  climax  of  the  afternoon. 

When  he  looked  up  from  gazing  into  the  pool  the  whole 
world  seemed  to  have  changed.  He  was  still  dazzled  per- 
haps by  the  reflection  of  the  water  in  his  eyes,  and  yet  it 
was  not  altogether  that.  It  was  not  altogether  because  the 
day  was  slipping  from  afternoon  into  evening. 

The  lazy  ripple  of  the  water  as  it  slutched  up  the  sand 
and  then  broke,  the  shadows  that  were  creeping  farther 
and  farther  from  rock  to  rock,  the  green  light  that  pushed 
up  from  the  horizon  into  the  faint  blue,  the  grey  web  of 
the  sea,  the  thick  gathering  of  the  hills  as  they  crept  more 
closely  about  the  little  darkening  beach  ...  it  was  none 
of  these  things. 

He  began  hurriedly  to  tell  Charlotte  about  the  Scarlet 
Admiral.  Even  as  he  told  her  he  was  himself  caught  into 
the  excitement  of  the  narration.  He  forgot  her;  he  did 
not  see  her  white  cheeks,  her  mouth  open  with  terror,  an 
expression  new  to  her,  that  her  face  had  never  known 
before,  stealing  into  her  eyes.  He  told  her  how  the  Fool 
had  seen  the  ship,  how  the  Admiral  had  landed,  then  left 
his  men  on  the  beach,  how  he  had  climbed  the  little  green 
path,  how  the  young  man  had  followed  him,  how  they  had 
fought,  how  the  young  man  had  fallen.  What  was  that  ? 
Jeremy  jumped  from  his  rock.  "I  say,  did  you  hear 
anything  ?" 

And  that  was  enough  for  Charlotte.  With  one  scream, 
a  scream  such  as  she  had  never  uttered  in  her  life  before, 
she  turned,  and  then,  running  as  indeed  she  had  never  run 
before,  she  stumbled,  half  fell,  stumbled,  finally  ran  as 
though  the  whole  world  of  her  ghosts  was  behind  her.    Her 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  CHAELOTTE      220 

screams  were  so  piercing  that  they  may  well  have  startled 
the  villagers  of  Rafiel. 

Jeremy  followed  her,  but  his  mind  was  not  with  her. 
Was  he  going  to  see  something  ?  What  was  it  ?  Who  was 
it? 

Then  the  awful  catastrophe  that  finished  the  afternoon 
occurred.  Turning  the  corner  of  the  rock,  Charlotte  missed 
her  footing  and  fell  straight  into  a  pool.  Jeremy,  Mary 
and  Helen  were  upon  her  almost  as  she  fell.  They  dragged 
her  out,  but  alas !  what  a  sight  was  there !  Instead  of  the 
beautiful  and  magnificent  Charlotte  there  was  a  bedraggled 
and  dirty  little  girl. 

But  also,  instead  of  an  inanimate  and  lifeless  doll,  there 
was  at  last  a  human  being,  a  terrified  soul. 

The  scene  that  followed  passes  all  power  of  description. 
Mrs.  Le  Page  wailed  like  a  lost  spirit ;  Mr.  Le  Page  was 
so  rude  to  Mr.  Cole  that  it  might  confidently  be  said  that 
those  two  gentlemen  would  never  speak  to  one  another 
again.  Mrs.  Cole,  dismayed  though  she  was,  had  some 
fatalistic  consolation  that  she  had  known  from  the  first 
that  the  picnic  would  be  a  most  dreadful  failure  and  that 
the  worst  had  occurred ;  there  was  no  more  to  come. 

Everyone  was  too  deeply  occupied  to  scold  Jeremy. 
They  all  moved  up  to  the  farm,  Charlotte  behaving  most 
strangely,  even  striking  her  mother  and  crying:  "Let  me 
go !  Let  me  go !  I  don't  want  to  be  clean !  I'm  fright- 
ened !    I'm  frightened !" 

Jeremy  hung  behind  the  others.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
little  lane  he  stood  and  waited.  Was  there  a  figure  coming 
up  through  the  dusk  ?  Did  someone  pass  him  ?  Why  did 
he  suddenly  feel  no  longer  afraid,  but  only  reassured  and 
with  the  strangest  certainty  that  the  lane,  the  beach,  the 


:230  JEREMY 

field  belonged  to  him  now  ?  He  would  come  there  and  live 
when  he  grew  up.  He  would  come  often.  Had  the  Scarlet 
Admiral  passed  him  ?  If  not  the  Scarlet  Admiral,  then 
the  other. 

The  sea  picnic  had,  after  all,  been  not  quite  a  mis- 
fortune. 

Jeremy  had  been  made  free  of  the  land. 

And  Charlotte?  Charlotte  had  been  woken  up,  and 
never  would  go  to  sleep  again. 


CHAPTER   X 


MAEY 


MARY  COLE  had  been,  all  her  life,  that  thing 
beloved  of  the  sentimental  novelist,  a  misunder- 
stood child.  She  was  the  only  misunderstood  member  of 
the  Cole  family,  and  she  was  misunderstood,  as  is  very 
often  the  case,  in  a  large  measure  because  she  was  so 
plain.  Had  she  been  good-looking  as  Helen,  or  indepen- 
dent as  Jeremy,  she  would  have  either  attracted  the  world 
in  general,  or  have  been  indifferent  as  to  whether  she 
attracted  it  or  not.  As  it  was,  she  longed  to  attract  every- 
one, and,  in  truth,  attracted  nobody.  She  might  have 
found  consolation  in  books  or  her  own  highly-coloured 
imaginations  had  it  not  been  for  the  burning  passions 
which  she  formed,  at  a  very  early  age,  for  living  people. 
For  some  years  now  her  life  had  centred  round  her  brother 
Jeremy.  Had  the  Coles  been  an  observant  family  they 
might,  perhaps,  have  found  some  pathos  in  the  way  in 
which  Mary,  with  her  pale  sallow  complexion,  her  pear- 
shaped  face  with  its  dull,  grey  eyes,  her  enormous  glasses, 
her  lanky  colourless  hair,  and  her  thin,  bony  figure,  gazed 
at  her  masculine  and  independent  brother. 

Uncle  Samuel  might  have  noticed,  but  he  was  occupied 
with  his  painting.  Eor  the  rest  they  were  not  obsen^ant. 
Mary  was  only  seven  years  of  age,  but  she  had  the  capacity 

231 


232  JEKEMY 

for  being  hurt  of  a  person  of  thirty.  She  was  hurt  bj" 
everything  and  everybody.  When  somebody  said:  "Now, 
Mary,  hurry  up.  You're  always  so  slow,"  she  was  hurt. 
If  Helen  told  her  that  she  was  selfish,  she  was  hurt,  and 
would  sit  wondering  whether  she  was  selfish  or  no.  If 
Mrs.  Cole  said  that  she  must  brush  her  hair  more  carefully 
she  was  hurt,  and  when  Jeremy  said  anything  sharp  to 
her  she  was  in  agony.  She  discovered  very  quickly  that 
no  one  cared  for  her  agonies.  The  Coles  were  a  plain, 
matter-of-fact  race,  and  had  the  day's  work  to  finish.  They 
had  no  intention  of  thinking  too  much  of  their  children's 
feelings.  Thirty  years  ago  that  was  not  so  popular  as  it 
is  now.  Meanwhile,  her  devotion  to  her  brother  grew  with 
every  month  of  her  life.  She  thought  him,  in  all  honesty, 
the  most  miraculous  of  all  human  beings.  There  was 
more  in  her  worship  than  mere  dog-like  fidelity.  She 
adored  him  for  reasons  that  were  real  and  true;  for  his 
independence,  his  obstinacy,  his  sense  of  fun,  his  sudden, 
unexpected  kindnesses,  his  sudden  helplessness,  and  above 
all,  for  his  bravery.  He  seemed  to  her  the  bravest  hero  in 
all  history,  and  she  felt  it  the  more  because  she  was  herself 
compact  of  every  fear  and  terror  known  to  man.  It  was 
not  enough  for  her,  the  ordinary  panic  that  belongs  to  all 
human  life  at  every  stage  of  its  progTess.  She  feared 
everything  and  everybody,  and  only  hid  her  fear  by  a 
persistent  cover  of  almost  obstinate  stupidity,  which  de- 
ceived, to  some  extent,  her  relations,  but  never  in  any 
degi'ee  herself.  She  knew  that  she  was  plain,  awkward 
and  hesitating,  but  she  knew  also  that  she  was  clever.  She 
knew  that  she  could  do  everything  twice  as  fast  as  Jeremy 
and  Helen,  that  she  was  often  so  impatient  of  their  slow 
progress  at  lessons  that  she  would  beat  her  foot  on  the 


MAKY  '  233 

ground  in  a  kind  of  agonised  impatience.  She  knew  that 
she  was  clever,  and  she  wondered  sometimes  why  her 
cleverness  did  not  give  her  more  advantage.  Wliy,  for 
instance,  should  Helen's  good  looks  be  noticed  at  once  by 
every  visitor  and  her  own  cleverness  be  unnoticed  ?  Cer- 
tainly, on  occasions,  her  mother  would  say :  "And  Mary  ? 
I  don't  think  you've  met  Mary.  Come  and  say,  how  do 
you  do,  Mary.  Mary  is  the  clever  one  of  the  family!" 
but  it  was  always  said  in  a  deprecating,  apologetic  tone, 
which  made  Mary  hang  her  head  and  hate  both  herself 
and  her  mother. 

She  told  herself  stories  of  the  times  when  Jeremy  would 
have  to  depend  entirely  upon  the  splendour  of  her  brains 
for  his  delivery  from  some  horror — death,  torture  or  dis- 
grace. At  present  those  times  were,  she  was  bound  to  con- 
fess to  herself,  very  distant.  He  depended  upon  no  one 
for  anything;  he  could  not  be  said  to  need  Mary's  assist- 
ance in  any  particular.  And  with  this  burning  desire  of 
hers  came,  of  course,  jealousy.  There  are  some  happy, 
easy  natures  to  whom  jealousy  is,  through  life,^  unknown. 
They  arei  to  be  envied.  Jealousy  in  a  grown-up  human  be- 
ing is  bad ;  in  a  child  it  is  terrible.  Had  you  told  Mrs.  Cole 
— good  mother  though  she  was — that  her  daughter  Mary, 
aged  seven,  suffered  tortures  through  jealousy,  she  would 
have  assured  you  that  it  was  not,  in  reality,  jealousy,  but 
rather  indigestion,  and  that  a  little  medicine  would  put 
it  right. 

Mary  was  quite  helpless.  What  is  a  child  to  do  if  she 
is  jealous  ?  Other  children  do  not  understand  her,  her 
elders  laugh  at  her.  Mary,  with  a  wisdom  greatly  beyond 
her  years,  realised  very  quickly  that  this  was  some  sort  of 
horrible  disease,  with  which  she  must  wrestle  alone.  Above 


234  -  JEKEMY 

all,  she  must  never  iallow  Jeremy  to  know  anything  about 
it.  He  was,  of  course,  sublimely  unaware  of  the  matter ; 
he  knew  that  Mary  was  silly  sometimes,  but  he  attributed 
that  to  her  sex;  he  went  on  his  way,  happily  indifferent 
whether  anyone  eared  for  him  or  no.  .  .  . 

Mary  suffered  agonies  when,  as  sometimes  happened, 
Jeremy  sat  with  his  arm  round  Helen's  neck  and  his  cheek 
up  against  hers.  She  suffered  when,  in  a  mood  of  tem- 
pestuous affection  to  the  whole  world,  he  kissed  Miss  Jones. 
She  even  suffered  when  he  sat  at  his  mother's  feet  whilst 
she  read  "The  Dove  in  the  Eagle's  ISTest,"  or  "Engel  the 
Fearless." 

Most  of  all,  however,  she  suffered  over  Hamlet.  She 
knew  that  at  this  present  time  Hamlet  was  the  one  crea- 
ture for  whom  Jeremy  passionately  cared.  He  loved  his 
mother,  but  with  the  love  that  custom  and  habit  has  tamed 
and  modified,  although  since  Mrs.  Cole's  illness  in  the 
early  summer  he  had  cared  for  her  in  a  manner  more 
demonstrative  and  openly  affectionate.  ISTevertheless,  it 
was  Hamlet  who  commanded  Jeremy's  heart,  and  Mary 
knew  it.  Matters  were  made  worse  by  the  undoubted  truth 
that  Hamlet  did  not  care  very  much  for  Mary — that  is,  he 
never  gave  any  signs  of  caring,  and  very  often  walked  out 
of  the  room  when  she  came  into  it.  Mary  could  have  cared 
for  the  dog  as  enthusiastically  as  Jeremy — she  was  always 
sentimental  about  animals — but  now  she  was  shut  out  from 
their  alliance,  and  she  knew  that  when  she  came  up  to 
them  and  began  to  pat  or  stroke  Hamlet,  Jeremy  was 
annoyed  and  Hamlet's  skin  wriggled  in  a  kind  of  retreating 
fashion  under  her  fingers.  Wise  people  will  say  that  it  is 
impossible  for  this  to  be  a  serious  trouble  to  a  child.  It 
was  increasingly  serious  to  Mary. 


MAKY  235 

Jeremy  was  not,  perhaps,  so  tactful  as  he  might  have 
been.  ''Oh  bother,  Mary !"  he  would  say.  ''You've  gone 
and  waked  Hamlet  up  !"  or  "Don't  stroke  Hamlet  that  way, 
Mary;  he  hates  it!"  or  "No,  I'm  going  for  a  walk  with 
Hamlet;  we  don't  want  anyone!"  Or  Hamlet  himself 
would  suddenly  bark  at  her  as  though  he  hated  her,  or 
would  bare  his  teeth  and  grin  at  her  in  a  mocking,  sar- 
castic way  that  he  had.  At  first,  as  an  answer  to  this,  she 
had  the  ridiculous  idea  of  herself  adopting  an  animal,  and 
she  selected,  for  this  purpose,  the  kitchen  cat,  a  dull, 
somnolent  beast,  whose  sleek  black  hair  was  furtive,  and 
green,  crooked  eyes  malignant.  The  cat  showed  no  signs 
of  affection  for  Mary,  nor  could  she  herself  honestly  care 
for  it.  When  she  brought  it  with  her  into  the  schoolroom, 
Hamlet  treated  it  in  a  scornful,  sarcastic  fashion  that  was 
worse  than  outrageous  attack.  The  cat  was  uncleanly,  and 
was  speedily  banished  back  into  the  kitchen.  Mary's 
jealousy  of  Hamlet  then  grew  apace,  and  with  that  jeal- 
ousy, unfortunately,  her  secret  appreciation  of  his  splen- 
dours. She  could  not  help  admitting  to  herself  that  he  was 
the  most  attractive  dog  in  the  world.  She  would  look  at 
him  from  under  her  spectacles  when  she  was  supposed  to 
be  reading  and  watch  him  as  he  rolled,  kicking  his  legs  in 
the  air,  or  lay  stretched  out,  his  black  wet  nose  against 
his  paws,  his  eyes  gleaming,  his  gaze  fixed  like  the  point 
of  a  dagger  raised  to  strike,  upon  some  trophy,  or  enemy, 
or  spoil,  or  sat,  solemn  and  pompous,  like  the  Lord  Mayor 
holding  a  meeting,  as  Jeremy  said,  up  against  his  master's 
leg,  square  and  solid  as  though  he  were  cut  out  of  wood, 
his  peaked  beard  supercilious,  his  very  ears  at  a  patronising 
angle ;  or,  as  Mary  loved  best  of  all  to  see  him,  when  he 
was  simply  childish,  playing,  as  though  he  was  still  a  new- 


236  JEREMY 

found  pi^ppy,  "With  pieces  of  paper  or  balls  of  string, 
rolling  and  choking,  growling,  purring,  staggering  and 
tumbling,  xit  such  times,  again  and  again,  her  impulse 
would  be  to  go  forward  and  applaud  him,  and  then  the 
instinct  that  she  would  be  checked  by  Jeremy  stayed  her. 

She  knew  very  well  that  Jeremy  realised  nothing  of 
this.  Jeremy  was  not  given  to  the  consideration  of  other 
people's  motives — his  own  independence  saved  him  from 
anxiety  about  others.  He  had  the  English  characteristic 
of  fancying  that  others  must  like  and  dislike  as  he  himself 
liked  and  disliked.  Of  sentiment  he  had  no  knowledge 
whatever. 

As  this  year  grew  towards  summer  Mary  had  the  feeling 
that  Jeremy  was  slipping  away  from  her.  She  did  not 
know  what  had  happened  to  him.  In  the  old  days  he  had 
asked  her  opinion  about  many  things;  he  had  seemed  to 
enjoy  the  long  stories  that  she  had  told  him — at  any  rate, 
he  had  listened  to  them  very  politely — and  he  had  asked 
her  to  suggest  games  or  to  play  with  his  toys.  !Now  as 
the  summer  drew  near,  he  did  none  of  these  things.  He 
was  frankly  impatient  with  her  stories,  never  asked  her 
advice  about  anything,  and  never  played  with  her.  Was 
he  gTowing  very  conceited  ?  Was  it  because  he  was  going 
to  school,  and  thought  himself  too  old  for  his  sisters? 
'Ko,  he  did  not  seem  to  be  conceited — he  had  always  been 
proud,  but  never  conceited.  It  was  rather  as  though  he 
had  lately  had  thoughts  of  his  own,  almost  against  his 
will,  and  that  these  had  shut  him  off  from  the  people  round 
him. 

Then,  when  their  mother  was  so  ill  and  Barbara  made 
her  startling  appearance  Jeremy  kept  more  to  himself.  He 
never  talked  about  his  mother's  illness,  as  did  the  others, 


MAEY  237 

and  yet  Mary  knew  that  he  had  been  more  deeply  concerned 
than  any  of  them.  She  had  been  miserable,  of  course,  but 
to  Jeremy  it  had  been  as  though  he  had  been  led  into  a 
new  world  altogether;  Helen  and  she  were  still  in  their 
old  places,  and  Jeremy  had  left  them. 

At  last  just  before  they  all  moved  to  Cow  Farm  Mary 
made  a  silly  scene.  She  had  not  intended  to  make  a  scene. 
Scenes  seemed  to  come  upon  her,  like  evil  birds,  straight 
out  of  the  air,  to  seize  her  before  she  knew  where  she  was, 
to  envelop  and  carry  her  up  with  them ;  at  last,  when  all 
the  mischief  was  done,  to  set  her  on  her  feet  again,  battered, 
torn  and  bitterly  ashamed.  One  evening  she  was  sitting 
deep  in  "Charlotte  Mary,"  and  Ilamlet,  bunched  up  against 
his  master's  leg,  stared  at  her.  She  had  long  ago  told 
herself  that  it  was  ridiculous  to  mind  what  Hamlet  did, 
that  he  was  not  looking  at  her,  and,  in  any  case,  he  was 
only  a  dog — and  so  on. 

But  to-night  she  was  tired,  and  had  read  so  long  that 
her  head  ached — Hamlet  was  laughing  at  her,  his  eyes 
stared  through  his  hair  at  her,  cynically,  superciliously, 
contemptuously.  His  lip  curled  and  his  beard  bristled. 
Moved  by  a  sudden  wild  impulse  she  picked  up  "The 
Chaplet  of  Pearls"  and  threw  it  at  him.  It  hit  him  (not 
very  severely),  and  he  gave  the  sharp,  melodramatic  howl 
that  he  always  used  when  it  was  his  dignity  rather  than 
his  body  that  was  hurt.  Jeremy  looked  up,  saw  what  had 
happened,  and  a  fine  scene  followed.  Mary  had  hysterics, 
stamped  and  screamed  and  howled.  Jeremy,  his  face 
white,  stood  and  said  nothing,  but  looked  as  though  he 
hated  her,  which  at  that  moment  he  undoubtedly  did.  It 
was  that  look  which  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world 
she  dreaded. 


238  JEKEMY 

She  made  herself  sick  with  crying;  then  apologised 
■with  an  abjection  that  only  irritated  him  the  more;  finally 
remembered  the  smallest  details  of  the  affair  long  after  he 
had  forgotten  all  about  it. 

n 

During  the  first  weeks  at  Cow  Farm  Mary  was  happy. 
She  had  then  many  especial  private  joys,  such  as  climbing 
into  one  of  the  old  apple  trees  behind  the  house  and  read- 
ing there,  safe  from  the  world,  or  inventing  for  herself 
wonderful  adventures  out  of  the  dark  glooms  and  sunlit 
spaces  of  the  orchard,  or  creeping  about  the  lofts  and  bams 
as  though  they  were  full  of  the  most  desperate  dangers  and 
hazards  that  she  alone  had  the  pluck  and  intelligence  to 
overcome.  Then  Mrs.  Monk  was  kind  to  her,  and  listened 
to  her  imaginative  chatter  with  a  most  marvellous  patience. 
Mary  did  not  know  that,  after  these  narrations,  she  would 
shake  her  head  and  say  to  her  husband:  "ISTot  long  for 
this  world,  I'm  thinking,  poor  worm  .  .  .  not  long  for 
this  world." 

Then,  at  first  Jeremy  was  kind  and  considerate.  He 
was  so  happy  that  he  did  not  mind  what  anyone  did,  and 
he  would  listen  to  Mary's  stories  quite  in  the  old  way, 
whistling  to  himself,  not  thinking  about  her  at  all  perhaps, 
really,  but  very  patient.  After  the  first  fortnight  he  slipped 
away  from  her  again — and  now  more  than  ever  before. 
He  went  off  for  long  walks  with  Hamlet,  refusing  to 
take  her  with  them ;  he  answered  her  questions  so  vaguely 
that  she  could  see  that  he  paid  her  no  attention  at  all ;  he 
turned  upon  her  and  rent  her  if  she  complained.  And  it 
was  all,  she  was  sure,  that  horrible  dog.  Jeremy  was  al- 
ways with  Hamlet  now.    The  free  life  that  the  farm  gave 


MAEY  239 

them,  no  lessons,  no  set  hours,  no  care  for  appearances, 
left  them  to  choose  their  own  ways,  and  so  developed  their 
individualities.  Helen  was  now  more  and  more  with  her 
elders,  was  becoming  that  invaluable  thing,  "a  great  help 
to  her  mother,"  and  even,  to  her  own  inexhaustible  pride, 
paid  two  calls  with  Mrs.  Cole  on  the  wives  of  neighbour- 
ing farmers.  Then,  Barbara  absorbed  more  than  ever  of 
Helen's  attention,  and  Mary  was  not  allowed  to  share  in 
these  rites  and  services  because  "she  always  made  Barbara 
cry." 

She  was,  therefore,  very  much  alone,  and  felt  all  her 
injuries  twice  as  deeply  as  she  had  felt  them  before. 
Hamlet  began  to  be  an  obsession  with  her.  She  had  always 
had  a  habit  of  talking  to  herself,  and  now  she  could  be 
heard  telling  herself  that  if  it  were  not  for  the  dog, 
Jeremy  would  always  be  with  her,  would  play  with  her, 
walk  with  her,  laugh  with  her  as  he  used  to  do.  She 
acquired  now  an  awkward  habit  of  gazing  at  him  with 
passionate  intensity.  He  would  raise  his  eyes  and  find  the 
great  moon-faced  spectacles  fixed  upon  him  with  a  be- 
seeching, reproachful  glare  in  the  light  of  them.  This 
would  irritate  him  intensely.     He  would  say: 

"You'll  know  me  next  time,  Mary." 

She  would  blush  crimson  and  then,  with  trembling 
mouth,  answer: 

"I  wasn't  looking." 

"Yes,  you  were." 

"No,  I  wasn't." 

"Of  course,  you  were — staring  as  though  I  were  an 
Indian  or  Chinaman.    If  my  face  is  dirty,  say  so." 

"It  isn't  dirty." 

"Well,  then " 


s. 


240  JEEEMY 

"You're  always  so  cross." 

"I'm  not  cross — only  you're  so  silly " 

"You  usen't  always  to  say  I  was  silly.    !N'ow  you  always 
do — every  minute." 

"So  you  are."     Then  as  lie  saw  the  tears  coming  lie 
,  would  get  up  and  go  away.    He  didn't  mean  to  be  unkind 
to  her ;  he  was  fond  of  her — ^but  he  hated  scenes. 

"Mary's  always  howling  about  something  now,"  he 
confided  to  Helen. 

"Is  she?"  Helen  answered  with  indifference.  ^^Mary'.s 
such  a  baby." 

So  Mary  began  to  attribute  everything  to  the  dog.  It 
seemed  to  her  then  that  she  met  the  animal  everywhere. 
Cow  Earm  was  a  rambling  building,  with  dark,  uneven 
stairs,  low-ceilinged  rooms,  queer,  odd  corners,  and  sudden 
unexpected  doors.  It  seemed  to  Mary  as  though  in  this 
place  there  were  two  Hamlets.  When,  in  the  evening  she 
went  to  her  room,  hurrying  through  the  passages  for  fear 
of  what  she  might  see,  stumbling  over  the  uneven  boards, 
sniffling  the  mice  and  straw  under  the  smell  of  her  tallow 
candle,  suddenly  out  of  nowhere  at  all  Hamlet  would  ap- 
pear scurrying  along,  like  the  White  Eabbit,  intent  on 
serious  business. 

He  came  so  softly  and  with  so  sudden  a  flurry  and 
scatter  when  she  did  hear  him  that  her  heart  would  beat 
for  minutes  afterwards,  and  she  would  not  dare  that  night 
to  search,  as  she  usually  did,  for  burglars  under  her  bed, 
but  would  lie,  quaking,  hot  and  staring,  unable  to  sleep. 
When  at  last  dreams  came  they  would  be  haunted  by  a 
monstrous  dog,  all  hair  and  eyes,  who,  with  padding  feet, 
would  track  her  round  and  round  a  room  from  which 
there  was  no  escape.     Hamlet,  being  one  of  the  wisest  of 


MAKY  241 

dogs,  very  quickly  discovered  that  Mary  hated  him.  He 
was  not  a  sentimental  dog,  and  he  did  not  devote  his  time 
to  inventing  ways  in  which  he  might  placate  his  enemy, 
he  simply  avoided  her.  But  he  could  not  hinder  a  certain 
cynical  and  ironic  pleasure  that  he  had  of,  so  to  speak, 
flaunting  his  master  in  her  face.  He  clung  to  Jeremy 
more  resolutely  than  ever,  would  jump  up  at  him,  lick 
his  hands  and  tumble  about  in  front  of  him  whenever 
Mary  was  there,  and  then  suddenly,  very  straight  and  very 
grave,  would  stare  at  her  as  though  he  were  the  most  devout 
and  obedient  dog  in  the  place.  Indeed,  he  bore  her  no 
malice;  he  could  afford  to  disregard  the  Marys  of  this 
world,  and  of  women  in  general  he  had  a  poor  opinion. 
But  he  loved  to  tease,  and  Mary  was  an  easy  prey.  He 
had  his  fun  with  her. 

After  the  affair  of  the  sea-picnic,  Jeremy  was  for  some 
time  under  a  cloud.  It  was  felt  that  he  was  getting  too 
big  for  anyone  to  manage.  It  was  not  that  he  was  wicked, 
not  that  he  kept  bad  company  with  the  boys  on  the  farm, 
or  was  dishonest,  or  told  lies,  or  stole  things — no,  he  gave 
no  one  that  kind  of  anxiety — but  that  he  was  developing 
quite  unmistakably  a  will  of  his  own,  and  had  a  remarkable 
way  of  doing  what  he  wanted  without  being  actually  dis- 
obedient, which  was  very  puzzling  to  his  elders.  Being  a 
little  in  disgi*ace  he  went  off  more  than  ever  by  himself, 
always  appearing  again  at  the  appointed  time,  but  telling 
no  one  where  he  had  been  or  what  he  had  been  doing. 
His  father  had  no  influence  over  him  at  all,  whilst  Uncle 
Samuel  could  make  him  do  whatever  he  wanted — and  this, 
as  Aunt  Amy  said,  "was  really  a  pity." 

"It's  a  good  thing  he's  going  to  school  in  September," 
sighed  his  mother.    "He's  getting  out  of  women's  hands." 


242  JEEE^Y 

]\Iarv  longed  with  feverish  longing  to  share  in  his  adven- 
tures. If  only  he  would  tell  her  what  he  did  on  these 
walks  of  his.  But  no,  only  Hamlet  knew.  Perhaps,  if  he 
did  not  go  with  the  dog  he  would  go  with  her,  When  this 
idea  crept  into  her  brain  she  seized  it  and  clutched  it.  That 
was  all  he  wanted — a  companion !  Were  Hamlet  not  there 
he  would  take  her.  Were  Hamlet  not  there.  .  .  .  She  be- 
gan  to  brood  over  this.  She  wandered.  .  .  .  She  consid- 
ered. She  shuddered  at  her  own  wickedness ;  she  tried  to 
drive  the  thoughts  from  her  head,  but  they  kept  coming. 

After  all,  no  one  need  know.  Eor  a  day  or  two  Jeremy 
would  be  sorry  and  then  he  would  forget.  She  knew  the 
man  who  went  round  selling  dogs — selling  dogs  and  buying 
them. 

She  shuddered  at  her  wickedness. 


Ill 

The  last  days  of  August  came,  and  with  them  the  last 
week  of  the  holiday.  Already  there  was  a  scent  of  autumn 
in  the  air,  leaves  were  turning  gold  and  red,  and  the 
evenings  came  cool  and  sudden,  upon  the  hot  summer 
afternoons.  Mary  was  not  very  well;  she  had  caught  a 
cold  somewhere,  and  existed  in  the  irritating  condition  of 
going  out  one  day  and  being  held  indoors  the  next.  This 
upset  her  temper,  and  at  night  she  had  nightmares,  in 
which  she  saw  clouds  of  smoke  crawling  in  at  her  window, 
snakes  on  the  floor,  and  crimson  flames  darting  at  her  from 
the  ceiling.  It  was  because  she  was  in  an  abnormal  con- 
dition of  health  that  the  idea  of  doing  something  with 
Hamlet  had  gained  such  a  hold  upon  her.  She  considered 
the  matter  from  every  point  of  view.     She  did  not  want 


MAEY  243 

to  be  cruel  to  the  dog ;  she  supposed  that  after  a  week  or 
two  he  would  he  quite  happy  with  his  new  master,  and,  in 
any  case,  he  had  strolled  in  so  casually  upon  the  Cole 
family  that  he  was  accustomed  to  a  wandering  life. 

She  did  not  intend  that  anyone  should  know.  It  was 
to  be  a  deep  secret  all  of  her  own. 

Jeremy  was  going  to  school  in  September,  and  before 
then  she  must  make  him  friendly  to  her  again.  She  saw 
stretching  in  front  of  her  all  the  lonely  autumn  without 
him  and  her  own  memories  of  the  miserable  summer  to 
make  her  wretched.  She  was  an  extremely  sentimental 
little  girl. 

As  always  happens  when  one  is  meditating  with  a  pla- 
cated conscience  a  wicked  deed,  the  opportunity  was  sud- 
denly offered  to  Mary  of  achieving  her  purpose.  One 
morning  Jeremy,  after  refusing  to  listen  to  one  of  Mary's 
long  romances,  lost  his  temper. 

''I  can't  stop,"  he  said.  *'You  bother  and  bother  and 
bother.    Aunt  Amy  says  you  nearly  make  her  mad." 

"I  don't  care  what  Aunt  Amy  says,"  Mary  on  the  edge 
of  tears  replied. 

"Hamlet  and  I  are  going  out.  And  I'm  sick  of  your 
silly  old  stories."  Then  he  suddenly  stopped  and  gazed 
at  Mary,  who  was  beginning,  as  usual,  to  weep. 

"Look  here,  Mary,  what's  been  the  matter  with  you 
lately?  You're  always  crying  now  or  something.  And 
you  look  at  me  as  though  I'd  done  something  dreadful. 
I  haven't  done  anything." 

"I — never — said  you — had,"  Mary  gulped  out.  He 
rubbed  his  nose  in  a  way  that  he  had  when  he  was- 
puzzled. 

"If  it's  anything  I  do,  tell  me.    It's  so  silly  always  cry- 


244  JEREMY 

ing.  The  holidays  will  be  over  soon,  and  you've  done 
nothing  but  cry." 

^'You're — never — ^with  me — now,"  Mary  sobbed. 

"Well,  I've  been  busy." 

"You  haven't.     You  can't  be  busy  all — by  yourself." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can."  He  was  getting  impatient.  "Any- 
way, you  might  let  Hamlet  and  me  alone.  You're  always 
bothering  one  of  uSo" 

"iSOj  I'm  not."  She  choked  an  enormous  sob  and  burst 
out  with :  "It's  always  Hamlet  now.  I  wish  he'd  never — 
come.     It  was  much  nicer  before." 

Then  he  lost  his  temper.  "Oh,  you're  a  baby !  I'm  sick 
of  you  and  your  nonsense,"  he  cried,  and  stamped  off. 

In  Mary's  red-rimmed  eyes,  as  she  watched  him  go. 
determination  gTew. 

it  happened  that  upon  the  afternoon  of  that  same  day 
Miss  Jones  announced  that  she  would  take  Mary  for  a 
walk;  then,  just  as  they  passed  through  the  farm  gates, 
Hamlet,  rushing  out,  joined  them.  He  did  not  often 
honour  them  with  his  company,  despising  women  most 
especially  when  they  walked,  but  to-day  his  master  was 
busy  digging  for  worms  in  the  vegetable  garden,  and,  after 
a  quarter  of  an  hour's  contemplation  of  this  fascinating 
occupation,  he  had  wandered  off  in  search  of  a  livelier 
game.  He  decided  to  join  Miss  Jones ;  he  could  do  what 
he  pleased,  he  could  amuse  himself  with  her  ineffectual 
attempts  to  keep  him  in  order,  and  he  could  irritate 
Mary ;  so  he  danced  along,  with  his  tail  in  the  air,  barking 
at  imaginary  rats  and  poking  his  nose  into  hedges. 

Mary,  with  a  sudden  tightened  clutching  of  the  heart, 
realised  that  her  hour  was  upon  her.  She  felt  so  wicked 
as  she  realised  this  that  she  wondered  that  the  ground 


MAKY  245 

didn't  open  up  and  swallow  her,  as  it  had  done  with  those 
unfortunate  people  in  the  Bible.  But  no,  the  world  was 
calm.  Little  white  milky  clouds  raced  in  lines  and  circles 
across  the  sky,  and  once  and  again  a  leaf  floated  from  a 
tree,  hung  for  a  moment  suspended,  and  then  turned  slowly 
to  the  ground.  The  hedges  were  a  dark  black-green,  high 
and  thick  above  the  dusty  road ;  there  had  been  no  rain  for 
weeks.  Truly  a  stable  world.  Mary,  glaring  at  Fate, 
wondered  how  it  could  be  so. 

Miss  Jones,  who  was  happy  and  optimistic  to-day,  talked 
in  a  tenderly  reminiscent  tone  of  her  youth.  This  vein  of 
reminiscence  Mary,  on  her  normal  day,  loved.  To-day  she 
did  not  hear  a  word  that  Miss  Jones  said. 

'T  remember  my  mother  saying  so  well  to  my  dear 
brother :  'Do  what  you  like,  my  boy.  I  trust  you.'  And 
indeed  Alfred  was  to  be  trusted  if  ever  a  boy  was.  It  is 
a  remarkable  thing,  but  I  cannot  remember  a  single  occa- 
sion of  dishonesty  on  Alfred's  part.  'A  white  lie,'  he 
would  often  say,  'is  a  lie,  and  a  lie  is  a  sin — white  or  black, 
always  a  sin';  and  I  remember  that  he  would  often  put 
mother  to  a  serious  inconvenience  by  his  telling  callers 
that  she  was  in  when  she  had  wished  it  to  be  said  that  she 
was  not  at  home.  He  felt  it  his  serious  duty,  and  so  he 
told  Mother.  'Don't  ask  me  to  tell  a  lie.  Mother,'  I 
remember  his  saying.    'I  cannot  do  it.'  " 

"Like  George  Washington,"  said  Mary,  suddenly  catch- 
ing the  last  words  of  Miss  Jones's  sentence. 

"He  was  like  many  famous  characters  in  history,  I  used 
to  think.  Once  I  remember  reading  about  Oliver  Crom- 
well. .  .  .  Where  is  that  dog  ?  Hamlet !  Hamlet !  Per- 
haps he's  gone  after  the  sheep.  Ah !  there  he  is !  Hamlet, 
you  naughty  dog !" 


246  JEREMY 

They  were  approaeting  one  of  their  favourite  pieces  of 
country — Mellot  Wood.  Here,  on  the  wood's  edge,  the 
ground  broke  away,  running  down  in  a  field  of  corn  to  a 
little  green  valley  with  clustered  trees  that  showed  only 
their  heads,  so  thickly  embedded  were  they,  and  beyond 
the  valley  the  sea.  The  sea  looked  quite  close  here,  al- 
though it  was  in  reality  four  miles  distant.  Never  was 
such  a  place  as  this  view  for  light  and  shadow.  The 
clouds  raced  like  the  black  wings  of  enormous  birds  across 
the  light  green  valley,  and  the  red-gold  of  the  cornfield 
was  tossed  into  the  haze  and  swept  like  a  golden  shadow 
across  the  earth,  bending  back  again  when  the  breeze  had 
died.  Behind  Mellot  Wood  was  Mellot  Earm,  an  old 
eighteenth-century  house  about  which  there  was  a  fine 
tragic  story  with  a  murder  and  a  ghost  in  it,  and  this,  of 
course,  gave  Mellot  Wood  an  additional  charm.  When 
they  arrived  at  the  outskirts  of  Mellot  Wood  Mary  looked 
about  her.  It  was  here,  on  the  edge  of  the  Rafiel  Eoad 
that  skirted  the  wood,  that  she  had  once  seen  the  dog-man 
eating  his  luncheon  out  of  a  red  pocket  handkerchief. 
There  was  no  sign  of  him  to-day.  All  was  silent  and  still. 
Only  the  little  wood  uttered  little  sighs  of  content  beneath 
the  flying  clouds.  Hamlet,  tired  with  his  racing  after 
imaginary  rabbits,  walked  quietly  along  by  Mary's  side. 
What  was  she  to  do?  She  had  once  again  the  desperate 
feeling  that  something  stronger  than  she  had  swept  down 
upon  her  and  was  forcing  her  to  do  this  thing.  She 
seemed  to  have  no  will  of  her  own,  but  to  be  watching 
some  other  commit  an  act  whose  dangerous  wickedness 
froze  her  heart.  How  could  she  ?  But  she  must.  Some^ 
one  was  doing  it  for  her. 

And  in  very  truth  it  seemed  so.     Miss  Jones  said  that 


MAEY  247 

now  they  were  here  she  might  as  well  call  upon  Miss 
Andrews,  the  sister  of  the  Mcllot  farmer.  Miss  Andrews 
had  promised  her  some  ducks'  eggs.  They  pushed  open 
the  farm  gate,  passed  across  the  yard  and  knocked  on  the* 
house  door.  Near  Mary  was  a  large  harn  with  a  heavy 
door,  now  ajar.  Hamlet  sat  gazing  pensively  at  a  flock 
of  geese,  his  tongue  out,  panting  contentedly. 

"Wait  here  one  minute,  Mary,"  said  Miss  Jones.  "I 
won't  stay." 

Miss  Jones  disappeared.  IMary,  still  under  the  strange 
sense  that  it  was  not  she,  but  another,  who  did  these 
things,  moved  back  to  the  barn,  calling  softly  to  Hamlet. 
He  followed  her,  sniffing  a  rat  somewhere.  Very  quickly 
she  pulled  back  the  door;  he,  still  investigating  his  rat, 
followed  into  the  dark  excitements  of  the  barn.  With  a 
quick  movement  she  bent  down,  slipped  off  his  collar, 
which  she  hid  in  her  dress,  then  shut  him  in.  She  knew 
that  for  a  moment  or  two  he  would  still  be  pursuing  his 
rat,  and  she  saw,  with  guilty  relief.  Miss  Jones  come  out 
to  her  just  as  she  had  finished  her  evil  deed. 

''Miss  Andrews  is  out,"  said  Miss  Jones.  "They  are 
all  away  at  Liskane  Fair." 

They  left  the  farm  and  walked  down  the  road.  Hamlet 
had  not  begun  his  cry. 


IV 


Miss  Jones  was  pleased.  "Such  a  nice  servant,"  she 
said.  "One  of  the  old  kind.  She  had  been  with  the 
family  fifty  years,  she  told  me,  and  had  nursed  Mr. 
Andrews  on  her  knee.  Fancy!  Such  a  large  fat  man 
as  he  is  now.  Too  much  beer,  I  suppose.  I  suppose  they 
get  so  thirsty  with  all  the  straw  and  hay  about.     Yes,  a 


248  JEREMY 

reallv  nice  woman.  She  told  me  that  there  was  no  place 
in  Glebesliire  to  touch  them  for  cream.  1  dare  say  they're 
right.  After  all,  you  never  can  tell.  I  remember  at 
home  .  .  ." 

She  broke  off  then  and  cried:  "Where's  Hamlet?" 

Mary,  wickeder  than  ever,  stared  through  her  spectacles 
down  the  road.  "I  don't  know,  Miss  Jones,"  she  said. 
They  had  left  the  wood  and  the  fann,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  long  white  ribbon  of  road 
hemmed  in  by  the  high  hedges, 

"Perhaps  he  stayed  behind  at  the  farm,"  said  Miss 
Jones. 

Then  Mary  told  her  worst  lie. 
'  "Oh,  no.  Miss  Jones.    He  ran  past  us  just  now.  Didn't 
you  see  him  ?" 

"Xo,  I  didn't.  He's  gone  on  ahead,  I  suppose.  He 
runs  home  sometimes.  Xaughty  dog!  We  shall  catch 
him  up." 

But  of  course  they  did  not.  They  passed  through  the 
gates  of  Cow  Farm  and  still  nothing  of  Hamlet  was  to 
be  seen. 

"Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!"  said  Miss  Jones.  "I  do  hope 
that  he's  arrived.  Whatever  will  Jeremy  say  if  anything 
has  gone  wrong?" 

Mary  was  breathing  hard  now,  as  though  she  had  been 
running  a  desperate  race.  She  would  at  this  moment  have 
given  all  that  she  possessed,  or  all  that  she  was  ever  likely 
to  possess,  to  recall  her  deed.  If  she  could  have  seen  Ham- 
let rushing  down  the  road  towards  her  she  would  have  cried 
with  relief ;  there  seemed  now  to  be  suddenly  removed  from 
her  that  outside  agency  that  had  forced  her  to  do  this 
thing;  now,  having  compelled  her,  it  had  withdrawn  and 


MAKY  249 

left  her  to  carry  the  consequences.  Strangely  confused  in 
her  sentimental  soul  was  her  terror  of  Jeremy's  wrath  and 
her  own  picture  of  the  wretched  Hamlet  barking  his  heart 
out,  frightened,  thirsty,  and  lonely.  Her  teeth  began  to 
chatter ;  she  clenched  her  hands  together. 

Miss  Jones  went  across  the  courtyard,  calling: 

"H?.mlet!    Hamlet!" 

The  family  was  collected,  having  just  sat  down  to  tea, 
so  that  the  announcement  received  its  full  measure  of 
excitement. 

"Has  Hamlet  come  back?  We  thought  he  was  ahead 
of  us." 

A  chair  had  tumbled  over.  Jeremy  had  run  round  the 
table  to  Miss  Jones. 

"What's  that  ?    Hamlet  ?    Where  is  he  ?" 

"We  thought  he  must  be  ahead  of  us.  He  ran  past  us 
dovtoi  the  road,  and  we  thought " 

They  thought!  Silly  women!  Jeremy,  as  though  he 
were  challenging  a  god,  stood  up  against  Miss  Jones, 
hurling  questions  at  her.  Where  had  they  been  ?  What 
road  had  they  taken?  Had  they  gone  into  the  wood? 
Whereabouts  had  he  run  past  them  ? 
~"I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Jones  to  this  last.  "I  didn't 
see  him.    Mary  did." 

Jeremy  turned  upon  Mary.  "Where  was  it  you  saw 
him?" 

She  couldn't  speak.     Her  tongue  wouldn't  move,  her 
lips  wouldn't  open;  she  could  but  waggle  her  head  like 
an  idiot.     She  saw  nothing  but  his  face.     It  was  a  des- 
perate face.    She  knew  so  much  better  than  all  the  others 
what  the  thought  of  losing  Hamlet  was  to  him.     It  was 


250  JEREMY 

part  of  the  liarsliness  of  lier  fate  that  she  should  understand 
him  so  much  better  than  the  others  did. 

But  she  herself  had  not  realised  how  hardly  he  would 
take  it. 

"I  didn't I  couldn't " 

''There's  the  dog-man,"  he  stammered.  "He'll  have 
stolen  him."  Then  he  was  off  out  of  the  room  in  an 
instant. 

And  that  was  more  than  Mary  could  bear.  She  realised, 
even  as  she  followed  him,  that  she  was  giving  her  whole 
case  away,  that  she  was  now,  as  always,  weak  when  she 
should  be  strong,  soft  when  she  should  be  hard,  good  when 
she  should  be  wicked,  wicked  when  she  should  be  good. 
She  could  not  help  herself.  With  trembling  limbs  and  a 
heart  that  seemed  to  be  hammering  her  body  into  pieces 
she  followed  him  out.  She  found  him  in  the  hall,  tugging 
at  his  coat. 

''Where  are  you  going  ?"  she  said  weakly. 

"Going  ?"  he  answered  fiercely.  "Where  do  you  think  ?" 
He  glared  at  her.  "Just  like  you."  He  broke  off,  sud- 
denly appealing  to  her.  "Mary,  emit  you  remember ?  It 
will  be  getting  dark  soon,  and  if  we  have  to  wait  until 
to-morrow  the  dog-man  will  have  got  him.  At  any  rate, 
he  had  his  collar " 

Then  Mary  broke  out.  She  burst  into  sobs,  pushed  her 
hand  into  her  dress,  and  held  out  the  collar  to  him. 

"There  it  is !   There  it  is !"  she  said  hysterically. 

"You've  got  it?"  He  stared  at  her,  suspicion  slowly 
coming  to  him.     "But  how ?   What  have  you  done?'* 

She  looked  up  at  him  wild-eyed,  the  tears  making  dirty 
lines  on  her  face,  her  hand  out  towards  him. 

"I  took  it  off.     I  shut  Hamlet  into  the  barn  at  Mellot 


MARY  251 

Farm.     I  wanted  him  to  be  lost.     I  didn't  want  you  to 
have  him.     I  hated  him — always  being  with  you,  and  me 


never." 


Jeremy  moved  back,  and  at  the  sudden  look  in  his  eyes 
her  sobbing  ceased,  she  caught  her  breath  and  stared  at 
him  with  a  silly  fixed  stare  as  a  rabbit  quivers  before  a 
snake. 

Jeremy  said  in  his  ordinary  voice : 

"You  shut  Hamlet  up?  You  didn't  want  him  to  be 
found?" 

She  nodded  her  head  several  times  as  though  now  she 
must  convince  him  quickly  of  this 

"Yes,  yes,  yes.  I  did.  ...  I  know  I  shouldn't,  but  I 
couldn't  help  it " 

He  clutched  her  arm,  and  then  shook  her  with  a  sudden 
wave  of  fierce  physical  anger  that  was  utterly  unlike  him, 
and,  therefore,  the  more  terrifying. 

"You  wicked,  wicked You  beast,  Mary !" 

She  could  only  sob,  her  head  hanging  down.  He  let 
her  go. 

"What  bam  was  it?" 

She  described  the  place. 

He  gave  her  another  look  of  contempt  and  then  rushed 
off,  running  across  the  courtyard. 

There  was  still  no  one  in  the  hall ;  she  could  go  up  to 
her  room  without  the  fear  of  being  disturbed.  She  found 
the  room,  all  white  and  black  now  with  the  gathering  dusk. 
Beyond  the  window  the  evening  breeze  was  rustling  in  the 
dark  trees  of  the  garden  and  the  boom  of  the  sea  could  be 
heard  faintly.  Mary  sat,  where  she  always  sat  when  she 
was  unhappy,  inside  the  wardrobe  with  her  head  amongst 
the  clothes.     They  in  some  way  comforted  her;  she  was 


252  JEEEMY 

not  so  lonely  with  them,  nor  did  she  feel  so  strongly  the 
empty  distances  of  the  long  room,  the  white  light  of  the 
window-frames,  nor  the  mysterious  secrecy  of  the  high  elms 
knocking  their  heads  together  in  the  garden,  outside. 

She  had  a  fit  of  hysterical  crying,  biting  the  hanging 
clothes  between  her  teeth,  feeling  suddenly  sick  and  tired 
and  exhausted,  with  flaming  eyes  and  a  dry,  parched  throat. 
AVhy  had  she  ever  done  such  a  thing,  she  loving  Jeremy 
as  she  did  ?  Would  he  ever  forgive  her  ?  ISTo,  never ;  she 
saw  that  in  his  face.  Perhaps  he  would — if  he  found 
Hamlet  quickly  and  came  back.  Perhaps  Hamlet  never 
would  be  found.     Then  Jeremy's  heart  would  be  broken. 

She  slept  from  utter  exhaustion,  and  was  so  found, 
when  the  room  was  quite  dark  and  only  shadows  moved 
in  it,  by  her  mother. 

"Why,  Mary !"  said  Mrs.  Cole.  'What  are  you  doing 
here  ?  We  couldn't  think  where  you  were.  And  where's 
Jeremy  ?" 

"Jeremy!"    She  started  up,  remembering  everything. 

"Hasn't  he  come  back  ?  Oh,  he's  lost  and  he'll  be  killed, 
and  it  will  be  all  my  fault !"  She  burst  into  another  fit 
of  wild  hysterical  crying. 

Her  mother  took  her  arm.     "Mary,  explain What 

have  you  done  ?" 

Mai-y  explained,  her  teeth  chattering,  her  head  aching 
so  that  she  could  not  see. 

"And  you  shut  him  up  like  that  ?    Whatever Oh, 

Mary,   you  wicked  girl!     And  Jeremy He's  been 

away  two  hours  now " 

She  turned  off,  leaving  Mary  alone  in  the  black  room. 


MAKY  253 


Mary  was  left  to  every  terror  that  can  beset  a  lonely, 
hysterical  child — terror  of  Jeremy's  fate,  terror  of  Ham- 
let's loss,  terror  of  her  own  crimes,  above  all,  ten-or  of 
the  lonely  room,  the  waving  elms  and  the  gathering  dark. 
She  could  not  move;  she  could  not  even  close  the  door  of 
the  wardrobe,  into  whoso  shelter  she  had  again  crept.  She 
stared  at  the  white  sheet  of  the  window,  with  its  black 
bars  like  railings  and  its  ghostly  hinting  of  a  moon  that 
would  soon  be  up  above  the  trees.  Every  noise  frightened 
her,  the  working  of  the  "separator"  in  a  distant  part  of 
the  farm,  the  whistling  of  some  farm-hand  out  in  the  yard, 
the  voice  of  some  boy,  "coo-ee"-ing  faintly^,  the  lingering 
echo  of  the  vanished  day — all  these  seemed  to  accuse  her, 
to  point  fingers  at  her,  to  warn  her  of  some  awful  impend- 
ing punishment.  "Ah !  you're  the  little  girl,"  they  seemed 
to  say,  "who  lost  Jeremy's  dog  and  broke  Jeremy's  heart.", 
She  was  sure  that  someone  was  beneath  her  bed.  That 
old  terror  haunted  her  with  an  almost  humorous  persist- 
ency every  night  before  she  went  to  sleep,  but  to-night  there 
was  a  ghastly  certainty  and  imminence  about  it  that  froze 
her  blood.  She  crouched  up  against  the  hanging  skirts, 
gazing  at  the  black  line  between  the  floor  and  the  white 
sheets,  expecting  at  every  second  to  see  a  protruding  black 
mask,  bloodshot  eyes,  a  coarse  hand.  The  memory  of  the 
burglary  that  they  had  had  in  the  spring  came  upon  her 
with  redoubled  force.  Ah!  surely,  surely  someone  was 
there !  She  heard  a  movement,  a  scraping  of  a  boot  upon 
the  floor,  the  thick  hurried  breathing  of  some  desperate 
villain.  .  .  . 

Then  these  fears  gave  way  to  something  worse  than 


254  JEKEMY 

them  all,  tlie  certainty  that  Jeremy  was  dead.  Ridiculous 
pictures  passed  before  her,  of  Jeremy  hanging  from  a  tree, 
Jeremy  lying  frozen  in  the  \YOod,  the  faithful  Hamlet  dead 
at  his  side,  Jeremy  stung  by  an  adder  and  succumbing  to 
his  horrible  tortures,  Jeremy  surrounded  by  violent  men, 
who  snatched  Hamlet  from  him,  beat  him  on  the  head  and 
left  him  for  dead  on  the  ground. 

She  passed  what  seemed  to  her  hours  of  torture  under 
these  horrible  imaginings,  tired  out,  almost  out  of  her 
mind  with  the  hysteria  of  her  loneliness,  her  imagination 
and  her  conscience;  she  passed  into  a  kind  of  apathy  of 
"unhappiness,  thinking  now  only  of  Jeremy,  longing  for 
him,  beseeching  him  to  come  back,  telling  the  empty 
moonlit  room  that  she  never  meant  it;  that  she  would  do 
everything  he  wanted  if  only  he  came  back  to  her ;  that  she 
was  a  wicked  girl ;  that  she  would  never  be  wicked  again. 
.  ,  .  And  she  took  her  punishment  alone. 

After  endless  ages  of  darkness  and  terror  and  misery 
she  heard  voices — then  Ms  voice!  She  jumped  out  of  the 
wardrobe  and  listened.  Yes ;  it  was  his  voice.  She  pushed 
back  the  door,  crept  down  the  passage,  and  came  suddenly 
upon  a  little  group,  with  Jeremy  in  its  midst,  crowded 
together  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  Jeremy  was  wrapped  up 
in  his  father's  heavy  coat,  and  looked  very  small  and  impish 
as  he  peered  from  out  of  it.  He  was  greatly  excited,  his 
eyes  shining,  his  mouth  smiling,  his  cheeks  flushed. 

His  audience  consisted  of  Helen,  Mrs.  Cole,  Miss  Jones, 
and  Aunt  Amy.  He  described  to  them  how  he  had  run 
along  the  road  "for  miles  and  miles  and  miles,"  how  at 
last  he  had  found  the  farm,  had  rung  the  bell,  and  in- 
quired, and  discovered  Hamlet  licking  up  sugary  tea  in 
the  farm  kitchens  there  had  then  been  a  rapturous  meet- 


MAKY  255 

ing,  and  he  had  boldly  declared  that  he  could  find  his  way 
home  again  without  aid.  ''They  wanted  me  to  he  driven 
home  in  their  trap,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  have  that.  They'd 
been  at  the  fair  all  day,  and  didn't  want  to  go  out  again. 
I  coulJ  see  that."  So  he  and  Hamlet  started  gaily  on  their 
walk  home,  and  then,  in  some  way  or  another,  he  took  the 
wrong  turn,  and  suddenly  they  were  in  Mellot  Wood.  ''It 
was  dark  as  anything,  you  know,  although  there  was  going 
to  be  a  moon.  We  couldn't  see  a  thing,  and  then  I  got 
loster  and  loster.  At  last  we  just  sat  under  a  tree.  There 
was  nothing  more  to  do !"  Then,  apparently,  Jeremy  had 
slept,  and  had,  finally,  been  found  in  the  proper  romantic 
manner  by  Jim  and  his  father. 

"Well,  all's  well  that  ends  well,"  said  Aunt  Amy,  with 
a  sniff.  In  spite  of  that  momentary  softness  over  the 
defeat  of  the  Dean's  Ernest  she  liked  her  young  nephew 
no  better  than  of  old.  She  had  desired  that  he  should  be 
punished  for  this,  but  as  she  looked  at  the  melting  eyes 
of  Mrs.  Cole  and  Miss  Jones  she  had  very  little  hope. 

Mary  was  forgotten ;  no  one  noticed  her. 

"Bed,"  said  Mrs.  Cole. 

"Eeally,  what  a  terrible  affair,"  said  Miss  Jones.  "And 
I  can't  help  feeling  that  it  was  my  fault." 

"What  Maiy "  began  Mrs.  Cole.     And  then  she 

stopped.  She  had  perhaps  some  sense  that  Mary  had 
already  received  sufEcient  punishment. 

Mary  waited,  standing  against  the  passage  wall.  Jeremy, 
who  had  not  seen  her,  vanished  into  his  room.  She  waited, 
then  plucking  up  all  her  courage  with  the  desperate  suffo- 
cating sense  of  a  prisoner  laying  himself  beneath  the 
guillotine,  she  knocked  timidly  on  his  door. 

He  said :  "Come  in,"  and  entering,  she  saw  him,  in  Ma 


256  JEKEMY 

braces,  standing  on  a  chair  trying  to  put  tlie  picture 
entitled  "Daddy's  Cliristmas"  straight  upon  its  nail.  The 
sight  of  this  familiar  task — ^the  picture  would  never  hang 
straight,  although  every  day  Jeremy,  who,  strangely 
enough,  had  an  eye  to  such  matters,  tried  to  correct  it — 
cheered  her  a  little. 

"Won't  it  go  straight?"  she  said  feebly. 

"^o,  it  won't,"  he  began,  and  then,  suddenly  realising 
the  whole  position,  stopped. 

"I'm  sorry,  Jeremy,"  she  muttered,  hanging  her  head 
down. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right/'  he  answered,  turning  away  from 
her  and  pulling  at  the  string.  "It  was  a  beastly  thing  to 
do  all  the  same,"  he  added. 

"Will  you  forgive  me  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  there  isn't  any  forgiveness  about  it.  Girls  are 
queer,  I  suppose.  I  don't  understand  them  myself.  There, 
that's  better.  ...  I  say,  it  was  simply  beastly  under  that 
tree " 

"Was  it?" 

"Beastly !  There  was  something  howling  somewhere — • 
a  cat  or  something." 

"You  do  forgive  me,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  yes.  ...  I  say,  is  that  right  now  ?  Oh,  it  won't 
stay  there.     It's  the  wall  or  something." 

He  came  down  from  the  chair  yawning. 

"Jim's  nice,"  he  confided  to  her.  "He's  going  to  take 
me  ratting  one  day !" 

"I'm  going,"  Mary  said  again,  and  waited. 

Jeremy  coloured,  looked  as  though  he  would  say  some- 
thing, then,  in  silence,  presented  a  very  grimy  cheek. 
Good-night,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  intense  relief. 


ti 


MAEY  257 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  kissing  him. 

She  closed  the  door  behind  her.  She  knew  that  the  worst 
had  happened.  He  had  passed  away,  utterly  beyond  her 
company,  her  world,  her  interests.  She  crept  along  to 
her  room,  and  there,  with  a  determination  and  a  strength 
rare  in  a  child  so  young  and  so  undisciplined,  faced  her 
loneliness. 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE  MEKRT-GO-EOUND 


THE  holidays  were  over.  Tlie  Coles  were  once  more 
back  in  Polchester,  and  the  most  exciting  period  of 
Jeremy's  life  had  begun.  So  at  any  rate  he  felt  it.  It 
might  be  that  in  later  years  there  would  be  new  exciting 
events,  lion-hunting,  for  instance,  or  a  war,  or  the  tracking 
of  niggers  in  the  heart  of  Africa — ^he  would  be  ready  for 
them  when  they  came — ^but  these  last  weeks  before  his 
first  departure  for  school  offered  him  the  prospect  of  the 
first  real  independence  of  his  life.  There  could  never  be 
an;>i;hing  quite  like  that  again.  ISTevertheless,  school 
seemed  still  a  long  way  distant.  It  was  only  his  manliness 
that  he  was  realising  and  a  certain  impatience  and  rest- 
lessness that  underlay  everything  that  he  did. 

September  and  October  are  often  very  lovely  months  in 
l*olchester;  autumn  seems  to  come  there  with  a  greater 
warmth  and  richness  than  it  does  elsewhere.  Along  all 
the  reaches  of  the  Pol,  right  down  to  the  sea,  the  leaves 
of  the  woods  hung  with  a  riotous  magnificence  that  is 
dorious  in  its  recklessness.  The  waters  of  that  silent 
river  are  so  still,  so  glassy,  that  the  banks  of  gold  and 
flaming  red  are  reflected  in  all  their  richest  colour  down 
into  the  very  heart  of  the  stream,  and  it  is  only  when  a 
fish  jumps  or  a  twig  falls  from  the  overhanging  trees 

258 


THE  MERRY-GO-EOUND  259 

that  the  mirror  is  broken  and  the  colours  flash  into  ripples 
and  shadows  of  white  and  grey.  The  utter  silence  of 
all  this  world  makes  the  Cathedral  town  sleepy,  sluggish, 
forgotten  of  all  men.  As  the  autumn  comes  it  seems  to 
drowse  away  into  winter  to  the  tune  of  its  Cathedral  bells, 
to  the  scent  of  its  burning  leaves  and  the  soft  steps  of  its 
Canons  and  clergy.  There  is  every  autumn  here  a  clerical 
conference,  and  long  before  the  appointed  week  begins, 
and  long  after  it  is  lawfully  concluded,  clergymen,  strange 
clergymen  with  soft  black  hats,  take  the  town  for  their 
own,  gaze  into  Martin  the  pastry-cook's,  sit  in  the  dusk 
of  the  Cathedral  listening  to  the  organ;  walk,  their  heads 
in.  air,  their  arms  folded  behind  their  backs,  straight  up 
Orange  Street  as  though  they  were  scaling  Heaven  itself; 
stop  little  children,  pat  their  heads,  and  give  them  pennies ; 
stand  outside  Poole's  bookshop  and  delve  in  the  2d.  box 
for  thumb-marked  sermons;  stand  gazing  in  learned  fash- 
ion at  the  great  West  Door,  investigating  the  saints  and 
apostles  portrayed  thereon;  hurry  in  their  best  hats  and 
coats  along  the  Close  to  some  ladies'  tea-party,  or  pass 
with  solemn  and  anxious  mien  into  the  palace  of  the 
Bishop  himself. 

All  these  things  belong  to  autumn  in  Polchester,  as 
Jeremy  very  well  knew,  but  the  event  that  marks  the  true 
beginning  of  the  season,  the  only  way  by  which  you  may 
surely  know  that  summer  is  over  and  autumn  is  come 
is  Pauper's  Fair. 

This  famous  fair  has  been,  from  time  immemorial,  a 
noted  event  in  Glebeshire  life.  Even  now,  when  fairs 
have  yielded  to  cinematographs  as  attractions  for  the 
people.  Pauper's  Fair  gives  its  annual  excitement.  Thirty 
years  ago  it  was  the  greatest  event  of  the  year  in  Pol- 


260  JEREMY 

cliester.  All  our  fine  people,  of  course,  disliked  it  ex- 
tremely. It  disturbed  the  town  for  days,  the  town  rocked 
in  the  arms  of  crowds  of  drunken  sailors,  the  town  gave 
shelter  to  gipsies  and  rogues  and  scoundrels,  the  town, 
the  decent,  amiable,  happy  town  actually  for  a  week  or  so 
seemed  to  invite  the  world  of  the  blazing  fire  and  the 
dancing  clown.  Xo  wonder  that  our  fine  people  shuddered. 
Only  the  other  day — I  speak  now  of  these  modern  times 
• — the  Bishop  tried  to  stop  the  whole  business.  He  wrote  to 
the  Glehesliire  Morning  News,  urging  that  Pauper's  Fair, 
in  these  days  of  enlightenment  and  culture,  cannot  but 
be  regretted  by  all  those  who  have  the  healthy  progress  of 
our  dear  country  at  heart.  Well,  you  would  be  amazed  at 
the  storm  that  his  protest  raised.  People  wrote  from  all 
over  the  County,  and  there  were  ultimately  letters  from 
patriotic  Glebeshire  citizens  in  New  Zealand  and  South 
Africa.  And  in  Polchester  itself !  Everyone — even  those 
who  had  shuddered  most  at  the  fair's  iniquities — was 
indignant.  Give  up  the  fair !  One  of  the  few  signs  left 
of  that  jolly  Old  England  whose  sentiment  is  cherished  by 
us,  whose  fragments  nevertheless  we  so  readily  stamp 
upon.  Xo,  the  fair  must  remain  and  will  remain,  I  have 
no  doubt,  until  the  very  end  of  our  national  chapter. 

Nowadays  it  has  shed,  very  largely,  I  am  afraid,  the 
character  that  it  gloriously  maintained  thirty  years  ago. 
Then  it  was  really  an  invasion  by  the  seafaring  element 
of  the  County.  All  the  little  country  ports  and  harbours 
poured  out  their  fishermen  and  sailors,  who  came  walk- 
ing, driving,  singing,  laughing,  swearing;  they  filled  the 
streets,  and  went  peering,  like  the  wildest  of  ancient  Picts, 
into  the  mysterious  beauties  of  the  Cathedral,  and  late  at 
night,  when  the  town  should  have  slept,  arm  in  arm  thej 


THE  MERRY-GO-ROUND  261 

went  roaring  past  the  dark  windows,  singing  their  songs, 
stamping  their  feet,  and  every  once  and  again  ringing  a 
decent  door-bell  for  their  amusement.  It  was  very  seldom 
that  any  harm  was  done.  Once  a  serious  fire  broke  out 
amongst  the  old  wooden  houses  down  on  the  river,  and 
some  of  them  were  burnt  to  the  ground,  a  fate  that  no 
one  deplored;  once  a  sailor  was  murdered  in  a  drunken 
squabble  at  "The  Dog  and  Pilchard,"  the  wildest  of  the 
riverside  hostelries;  and  once  a  Canon  was  caught  and 
stripped  and  ducked  in  the  waters  of  the  Pol  by  a  mob 
who  resented  his  gentle  appeals  that  they  should  try  to 
prefer  lemonade  to  gin;  but  these  were  the  only  three 
catastrophes  in  all  the  history  of  the  fair. 

During  the  fair  week  the  town  sniffed  of  the  sea — of 
lobster  and  seaweed  and  tar  and  brine — and  all  the  tales 
of  the  sea  that  have  ever  been  told  by  man  were  told  dur- 
ing these  days  in  Polchester. 

The  decent  people  kept  their  doors  locked,  their  chil- 
dren at  home,  and  their  valuables  in  the  family  safe.  iSTo 
upper  class  child  in  Polchester  so  much  as  saw  the  outside 
of  a  gipsy  van.  The  Dean's  Ernest  was  accustomed  to 
boast  that  he  had  once  been  given  a  ride  by  a  gipsy  on  a 
donkey,  when  his  nurse  was  not  looking,  but  no  one  cred- 
ited the  story,  and  the  details  with  which  he  supported  it 
were  feeble  and  unconvincing.  The  Polchester  children 
in  general  were  told  that  "they  would  be  stolen  by  the 
gipsies  if  they  weren't  careful,"  and,  although  some  of  them 
in  extreme  moments  of  rebellion  and  depression  felt  that 
the  life  of  adventure  thus  offered  to  them  might,  after  all, 
be  more  agreeable  than  the  dreary  realism  of  their  natural 
days,  the  warning  may  be  said  to  have  been  effective. 

iSTo  family  in  Polchester  was  guarded  more  carefully  in 


262  JEREMY 

this  matter  of  the  Pauper's  Fair  than  the  Cole  family. 
Mr.  Cole  had  an  absolute  horror  of  the  fair.  Sailors  and 
gipsies  were  to  him  the  sign  and  seal  of  utter  damnation, 
and  although  he  tried,  as  a  Christian  clerg^nnan,  to  be- 
lieve that  they  deserved  pity  because  of  the  disadvantages 
under  which  they  had  from  the  first  laboured,  he  confessed 
to  his  intimate  friends  that  he  saw  very  little  hope  for 
them  either  in  this  world  or  the  next.  Jeremy,  Helen  and 
!^iary  were,  during  Fair  Week,  kept  severely  within  doors ; 
their  exercise  had  to  be  taken  in  the  Cole  garden,  and  the 
farthest  that  they  poked  their  noses  into  the  town  was  their 
visit  to  St.  John's  on  Sunday  morning.  Except  on  one 
famous  occasion.  The  Fair  Week  of  Jeremy's  fifth  year 
saw  him  writhing  under  a  terrible  attack  of  toothache, 
which  became,  after  two  agonised  nights,  such  a  torment 
and  distress  to  the  whole  household  that  he  had  to  be  con- 
veyed to  the  house  of  Mr.  Filter,  who  had  his  torture- 
chamber  at  ]^o.  3  Market  Square.  It  is  true  that  Jeremy 
was  conveyed  thither  in  a  cab,  and  that  his  pain  and  his 
darkened  windows  prevented  him  from  seeing  very  much 
of  the  gay  world;  nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the  Jampot, 
who  guarded  him  like  a  dragon,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
flags,  a  gleaming  brass  band  and  a  Punch  and  Judy  show, 
and  he  heard  the  trumpets  and  the  drum,  and  the  shouts 
of  excited  little  boys,  and  the  blowing  of  the  Punch  and 
Judy  pipes,  and  he  smelt  roasting  chestnuts,  bad  tobacco, 
and  beer  and  gin.  He  returned,  young  as  he  w^as,  and 
reduced  to  a  corpse-like  condition  by  the  rough  but  kindly 
intentioned  services  of  Mr.  Filter,  with  the  picture  of  a 
hysterical,  abandoned  world  clearly  imprinted  upon  his 
brain. 

"I  want  to  go,"  he  said  to  the  Jampot. 


THE  MERRY-GO-EOUND  263 

"You  can't,"  said  she. 

"I  -will  when  I'm  six,"  said  he. 

"You  won't,"  said  she. 

"I  will  when  I'm  seven,"  said  he. 

"You  won't,"  said  she. 

"I  will  when  I'm  eight,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  give  over,  do,  Master  Jeremy,"  said  she.  And 
now  he  was  eight,  very  nearly  nine,  and  going  to  school 
in  a  fortnight.  There  seemed  to  be  a  touch  of  destiny 
about  his  prophecy. 

n 

He  had  no  intention  of  disobedience.  Had  he  been  once 
definitely  told  by  someone  in  authority  that  he  was  not  to 
go  to  the  fair  he  would  not  have  dreamt  of  going.  He  had 
no  intention  of  disobedience — but  he  had  returned  from 
the  Cow  Farm  holiday  in  a  strange  condition  of  mind. 

He  had  found  there  this  summer  more  freedom  than 
he  had  been  ever  allowed  in  his  life  before,  and  it  had 
been  freedom  that  had  come,  not  so  much  from  any  change 
of  rules,  but  rather  from  his  own  attitude  to  the  family — 
simply  he  had  wanted  to  do  certain  things,  and  he  had 
done  them  and  the  family  had  stood  aside.  He  began  to 
be  aware  that  he  had  only  to  push  and  things  gave  way — 
a  dangerous  knowledge,  and  its  coming  marks  a  period  in 
one's  life. 

He  seemed,  too,  during  this  summer,  to  have  left  his 
sisters  definitely  behind  him  and  to  stand  much  more 
alone  than  he  had  done  before.  The  only  person  in  his 
world  whom  he  felt  that  he  would  like  to  know  better  was 
TJncle  Samuel,  and  that  argued,  on  his  part,  a  certain 
tendency  towards  rebellion  and  individuality.     He  was 


264  JEREMY 

no  longer  rude  to  Aunt  Amy,  althougli  he  hated  her  just 
as  he  had  always  done.  She  did  not  seem  any  longer  a 
question  that  mattered.  His  attitude  to  his  whole  family 
now  was  independent. 

Indeed,  he  was,  in  reality,  now  beginning  to  live  his 
independent  life.  He  was  perhaps  very  young  to  be  sent 
off  to  school  by  himself,  although  in  those  days  for  a  boy 
of  eight  to  be  plunged  without  any  help  but  a  friendly 
word  of  warning  into  the  stormy  seas  of  private  school  life 
was  common  enough — nevertheless,  his  father,  conscious 
that  the  child's  life  had  been  hitherto  spent  almost  en- 
tirely among  women,  sent  him  every  morning  during  these 
last  weeks  at  home  down  to  the  Curate  of  St.  Martin' s-ln- 
the-Market  to  learn  a  few  words  of  Latin,  an  easy  sum  or 
two,  and  the  rudiments  of  spelling.  This  young  curate, 
the  Rev.  Wilfred  Somerset,  recently  of  Emmanuel  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  had  but  two  ideas  in  his  head — the  noble 
game  of  cricket  and  the  jolly  qualities  of  Mr.  Surtees's 
novels.  He  was  stout  and  strong,  red-faced,  and  thick  in 
the  leg,  always  smoking  a  large  black-looking  pipe,  and 
wearing  trousers  very  short  and  tight.  He  did  not  strike 
Jeremy  with  fear,  but  he  was,  nevertheless,  an  influence. 
Jeremy,  apparently,  amused  him  intensely.  He  would 
roar  with  laughter  at  nothing  at  all,  smack  his  thigh  and 
shout,  "Good  for  you,  young  'un,"  whatever  that  might 
mean,  and  Jeremy,  gazing  at  him,  at  his  pipe  and  his 
trousers,  liking  him  rather,  but  not  sufficiently  in  awe  to 
be  really  impressed,  would  ask  him  questions  that  seemed 
to  him  perfectly  simple  and  natural,  but  that,  neverthe- 
less, amused  the  Rev.  Wilfred  so  fundamentally  that  he 
was  unable  to  give  them  an  intelligible  answer. 

Undoubtedly  this  encouraged  Jeremy's   independence. 


THE  MEKRY-GO-EOUND  265 

He  walked  to  and  from  the  curate's  lodging  by  himself, 
and  was  able  to  observe  many  interesting  things  on  the 
way.  Sometimes,  late  in  the  afternoon,  he  would  have 
some  lesson  that  he  must  take  to  his  master  who,  as  he 
lodged  at  the  bottom  of  Orange  Street,  was  a  very  safe 
and  steady  distance  from  the  Coles. 

Of  course  Aunt  Amy  objected: 

"You  allow  Jeremy,  all  by  himself,  into  the  street  at 
night,  and  he  only  eight.     Eeally,  you're  too  strange!" 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,"  said  Mrs.  Cole,  mildly,  "it 
isn't  night — it's  afternoon ;  in  the  second  place,  it  is  only 
just  down  the  street,  and  Jeremy's  most  obedient  always, 
as  you  know,  Amy." 

"I'm  sure  that  Mr.  Somerset  is  wild,"  said  Aunt  Amy. 

"My  dear  Amy,  why  ?" 

"You've  only  got  to  look  at  his  face.  It's  'flashy.' 
That's  what  I  call  it." 

"Oh,  that  isn't  the  sort  of  man  who'll  do  Jeremy  harm," 
said  Mrs.  Cole,  with  a  mother's  wisdom. 

Certainly,  he  did  Jeremy  no  harm  at  ail;  he  taught 
him  nothing,  not  even  "mensa,"  and  how  to  spell  "receive" 
and  "apple."  The  only  thing  he  did  was  to  encourage 
Jeremy's  independence,  and  this  was  done,  in  the  first 
place,  by  the  walks  to  and  fro. 

He  had  only  been  going  to  Mr.  Somerset's  a  day  or  two 
when  the  announcements  of  the  Fair  appeared  on  the 
walls  of  the  town.  He  could  not  help  but  see  them ;  there, 
was  a  large  one  on  the  boarding  half-way  down  Orange 
Street,  just  opposite  the  Doctor's;  a  poster  with  a  col- 
oured picture  of  "Wombwell's  Circus,"  a  fine  affair,  with 
spangled  ladies  jumping  through  hoops,  elephants  sitting 
on  stools,  tigers  prowling,  a  clown  cracking  a  whip,  and, 


266  JEKEMY 

best  of  all,  a  gentleman,  witli  an  anxious  face  and  a  scantj 
but  elegant  costume,  balanced  above  a  gazing  multitude 
on  a  tight-rope.  There  was  also  a  bill  of  the  Fair  setting 
forth  that  there  would  be  a  "Cattle  Market,  Races,  Round- 
about, Swings,  Wrestling,  Boxing,  Fat  "Women,  Dwarfs, 
and  the  Two-Headed  Giant  from  the  Caucasus."  During 
a  whole  week,  once  a  day,  Jeremy  read  this  bill  from  the 
top  to  the  bottom ;  at  the  end  of  the  week  he  could  repeat 
it  all  by  heart. 

He  asked  Mr.  Somerset  whether  he  was  going. 

"Oh,  I  shall  slip  along  one  evening,  I've  no  doubt,"  re- 
plied that  gentleman.  "But  it's  a  bore — a  whole  week 
of  it — upsets  one's  work." 

"It  needn't,"  said  Jeremy,  "if  you  stay  indoors." 

This  amused  Mr.  Somerset  immensely.  He  laughed  a 
great  deal. 

"We  always  have  to,"  said  Jeremy,  rather  hurt,  '^e're 
not  allowed  farther  than  the  garden." 

"Ah,  but  I'm  older  than  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Somerset. 
"It  was  the  same  with  me  once." 

"And  what  did  you  do  ?     Did  you  go  all  the  same  ?" 

"You  bet,  I  did,"  said  the  red-faced  hero,  more  intent 
on  his  reminiscences  than  on  the  effect  that  this  might  have 
on  the  morals  of  his  pupil. 

Jeremy  waited  then  for  the  parental  command  that 
was  always  issued.  It  was:  "iSTow,  children,  you  must 
promise  me  never  to  go  outside  the  house  this  week  unless 
you  have  asked  permission  first."  And  then:  "And  on 
no  account  to  speak  to  any  stranger  about  anything  what- 
ever." And  then :  "Don't  look  out  of  the  back  windows, 
mind."  (From  the  extreme  comers  of  the  bedroom  win- 
dows you  could  see  a  patch  of  the  meadow  whereon  the 


THE  MERRY-GO-ROUND  267 

gjpsy-vans  settled.)  These  commands  had  been  as  regu- 
lar as  the  Fair,  and  always,  of  course,  the  children  had 
promised  obedience.  Jeremy  told  his  conscience  that  if, 
this  year,  he  gave  his  promise,  ho  would  certainly  keep 
it.  He  wondered,  at  the  same  time,  whether  he  might  not 
possibly  manage  to  be  out  of  the  house  when  the  commands 
were  issued.  He  formed  a  habit  of  suddenly  slipping  oMi 
of  the  room  when  he  saw  his  father's  mouth  assuming  the 
shape  of  a  "command."  He  took  the  utmost  care  not  to 
be  alone  with  his  father. 

But  he  need  not  have  been  alarmed.  This  year  no  com- 
mand appeared.  Perhaps  Mr.  Cole  thought  that  it  was 
no  longer  necessary ;  it  was  obvious  that  the  children  were 
not  to  go,  and  they  were,  after  all,  old  enough  now  to 
think  for  themselves.  Or,  perhaps,  it  was  that  Mr.  Cole 
had  other  things  on  his  mind;  he  was  changing  curates 
just  then,  and  a  succession  of  white-faced,  soft-voiced,  and 
loud-booted  young  men  were  appearing  at  the  Coles'  hos- 
pitable table. 

"Here's  this  tiresome  Fair  come  round  again,"  said  Mrs. 
Cole. 

"Wicked!"  said  Aunt  Amy,  with  an  envious  shudder. 
"Satan  finds  work,  indeed,  in  this  town." 

"I  don't  suppose  it's  worse  than  anywhere  else,"  said 
Mrs.  Cole. 

On  the  late  afternoon  of  the  day  before  the  opening, 
Jeremy,  on  his  way  to  Mr.  Somerset's,  caught  the  tail- 
end  of  Wombwell's  Circus  Procession  moving,  in  misty 
splendour,  across  the  market. 

He  could  see  but  little,  although  he  stood  on  the  pedes- 
tal of  a  lamp-post ;  but  Britannia,  rocking  high  in  the  air. 


268  JEREMY 

flashing  her  silver  sceptre  in  the  evening  air,  and  fol- 
lowed by  two  enormous  and  melancholy  elephants,  caught 
his  gaze.  Strains  of  a  hand  lingered  about  him.  He 
entered  Mr.  Somerset's  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement,  but  he 
said  nothing.  He  felt  that  Mr.  Somerset  would  laugh 
at  him. 

He  returned  to  his  home  that  night  haunted  by  Britan- 
nia. He  ate  Britannia  for  his  supper;  he  had  Britannia 
for  his  dreams ;  and  he  gi-eeted  Eose  as  Britannia  the  next 
morning  when  she  called  him.  Early  upon  that  day  there 
were  borne  into  the  heart  of  the  house  strains  of  the  Fair. 
It  was  no  use  whatever  to  close  the  windows,  lock  the  doors, 
and  read  Divinity.  The  strains  persisted,  a  heavenly  mur- 
mur, rising  at  moments  into  a  muffled  shriek  or  a  jum- 
bling shout,  hanging  about  the  walls  as  a  romantic  echo, 
dying  upon  the  air  a  chastened  wail.  !No  use  for  Mr, 
Cole  to  say : 

"We  must  behave  as  though  the  Eair  was  not." 

For  a  whole  week  it  would  be  there,  and  everyone  knew 
it. 

Jeremy  did  not  mean  to  be  disobedient,  but  after  that 
glimpse  of  'Britannia  he  knew  that  he  would  go. 

ni 

It  had,  at  first,  been  thought  advisable  that  Jeremy 
should  not  go  to  Mr.  Somerset's  during  Fair  Week.  Per- 
haps Mr.  Somerset  could  come  to  the  Coles'  ?  'No,  he  was 
very  sorry.  He  must  be  in  his  rooms  at  that  particular 
hour  in  case  parishioners  should  need  his  advice  or  as- 
sistance. 

"Pity  for  him  to  miss  all  this  week,  especially  as  there 


THE  MEKRY-GO-ROUND  269 

will  be  only  four  days  left  after  that.  I  am  really  anx- 
ious for  him  to  have  a  little  grounding  in  Latin." 

Mrs.  Cole  smiled  confidently.  "I  think  Jeremy  is  to  be 
trusted.  He  would  never  do  anything  that  you  wouldn't 
like." 

Mr.  Cole  was  not  so  sure.  "He's  not  quite  so  obedient 
as  I  should  wish.    He  shows  an  independence " 

However,  after  some  hesitation  it  was  decided  that 
Jeremy  might  be  trusted. 

But  even  after  that  he  was  never  put  upon  his  honour. 
"If  I  don't  promise,  I  needn't  mind,"  he  said  to  himself, 
and  waited  breathlessly;  but  nothing  came.  Only  Aunt 
Amy  said : 

"I  hope  you  don't  speak  to  little  boys  in  the  street, 
Jeremy."  To  which  he  replied  scornfully:  "Of  course 
not." 

He  investigated  his  money-box,  removing  the  top  with 
a  tin-opener.  He  found  that  he  had  there  3s.  3^d. ;  a 
large  sum,  and  enough  to  give  him  a  royal  time. 

Mary  caught  him. 

"Oh,  Jeremy,  what  are  you  doing  ?" 

"Just  counting  my  money,"  he  said,  with  would-be 
carelessness. 

"You're  going  to  the  Fair  ?"  she  whispered  breathlessly. 

He  frowned.  How  could  she  know  ?  She  always  knew 
everything. 

"Perhaps,"  he  whispered  back;  "but  if  you  tell  any- 
one I'll " 

"Of  course  I  wouldn't  tell,"  she  replied,  deeply  offended. 

This  little  conversation  strengthened  his  purpose.  He 
had  not  admitted  to  himself  that  he  was  really  going.  "Novf 
he  knew. 


270  JEKEMY 

Wednesday  would  be  the  night.  On  Wednesday  eve* 
nings  his  father  had  a  service  which  prevented  him  from 
returning  home  until  half-past  eight.  He  would  go  ta 
Somerset's  at  half-past  four,  and  would  be  expected  home 
at  half-past  six ;  there  would  be  no  real  alarm  about  him 
until  his  father's  return  from  church,  and  he  could,  there- 
fore, be  sure  of  two  hours'  bliss.  For  the  consequences 
he  did  not  care  at  all.  He  was  going  to  do  no  harm  to' 
anyone  or  anything.  They  would  be  angry,  perhaps,  but 
that  would  not  hurt  him,  and,  in  any  case,  he  was  going 
to  school  next  week.  jSTo  one  at  school  would  mind  whether 
he  had  been  to  the  Fair  or  no. 

He  felt  aloof  and  apart,  as  though  no  one  could  touch 
him.  He  would  not  have  minded  simply  going  into  them 
all  and  saying :  "I'm  off  to  the  Fair."  The  obvious  draw- 
back to  that  would  have  been  that  he  would  have  been  shut 
up  in  his  room,  and  then  they  might  make  him  give  his 
word.  .  .  .  He  would  not  break  any  promises. 

When  Wednesday  came  it  was  a  lovely  day.  Out  in  the 
field  just  behind  the  Coles'  house  they  were  burning  a 
huge  bonfire  of  dead  leaves.  At  first  only  a  heavy  column 
of  grey  smoke  rose,  then  flames  broke  through ;  little,  thin 
golden  flames  like  paper ;  then  a  sudden  fierce  red  tongue 
shot  out  and  went  licking  up  into  the  air  until  it  faded 
like  tumbling  water  against  the  sunlight.  On  the  outer 
edge  of  the  bonfire  there  was  thin  grey  smoke  through 
which  you  could  see  as  through  glass.  The  smell  was 
heavenly,  and  even  through  closed  windows  the  crackling 
of  the  burnt  leaves  could  be  heard.  The  sight  of  the  bon- 
fire excited  Jeremy.  It  seemed  to  him  a  signal  of  en- 
couragement, a  spur  to  perseverance.  All  the  morning 
the  flames  crackled,   and  men  came  with  wheelbarrows 


THE  MERRY-GO-EOUND  271 

full  of  leaves  and  emptied  them  in  thick  heaps  upon  the 
fire.  At  each  emptying  the  fire  would  be  for  a  moment 
Ijeaten,  and  only  the  white,  thick,  malicious  smoke  would 
come  through ;  then  a  little  spit  of  flame,  another,  another ; 
then  a  thrust  like  a  golden  hand  stretching  out;  then  a 
fine,  towering,  quivering  splendour. 

Under  the  full  noonday  sun  the  fire  was  pale  and  so 
unreal,  weak,  and  sickly,  that  one  was  almost  ashamed  to 
look  at  it.  But  as  the  afternoon  passed,  it  again  gathered 
strength,  and  with  the  faint,  dusky  evening  it  was  a  giant 
once  more. 

"You  come  along,"  it  said  to  Jeremy.  "Come  along! 
Come  along!" 

"I'm  going  to  Mr.  Somerset's,  Mother,"  he  said,  putting 
two  exercise  books  and  a  very  new  and  shining  blue  Latin 
book  together. 

"Are  you,  dear?  I  suppose  you're  safe?"  Mrs.  Cole 
asked,  looking  through  the  drawing-room  window. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  said  Jeremy 

"Well,  I  think  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Cole.  "The  street  seems 
quite  empty.  Don't  speak  to  any  odd-looking  men,  will 
you  ?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said  again. 

He  walked  down  Orange  Street,  his  books  under  his 
arm,  the  3s.  S^/od.  in  his  pocket.  The  street  was  quite 
deserted,  swimming  in  a  cold,  pale  light;  the  trees,  the 
houses,  the  church,  the  garden-walls,  sharp  and  black ;  the 
street,  dim  and  precipitous,  tumbling  forward  into  the  blue, 
whence  lights,  one,  two,  three,  now  a  little  bunch  together, 
came  pricking  out. 

The  old  woman  opened  the  door  when  he  rang  Mr. 
Somerset's  bell. 


272  JEREMY 

"Master's  been  called  away,"  slie  said  in  her  croaking 
voice.  ''A  burial.  'E  'adn't  time  to  let  you  know.  'Tell 
the  little  genTman,'  'e  said,  'I'm  sorry.'  " 

"All  right,"  said  Jeremy;  "thank  you." 

He  descended  the  steps,  then  stood  where  he  was,  in  the 
street,  looking  up  and  down.  Who  could  deny  that  it  was 
all  being  arranged  for  him  ?  He  felt  more  than  ever  like 
God  as  he  looked  proudly  about  him.  Everything  served 
his  purpose. 

The  jingling  of  the  money  in  his  pocket  reminded  him 
that  he  must  waste  no  more  time.    He  started  off. 

Even  his  progress  through  the  town  seemed  wonderful, 
quite  unattended  at  last,  as  he  had  always  all  his  life 
longed  to  be.  So  soon  as  he  left  Orange  Street  and  en- 
tered the  market  he  was  caught  into  a  great  crowd.  It  was 
all  stirring  and  humming  with  a  noise  such  as  the  bonfire 
had  all  day  been  making.  It  was  his  first  introduction  to 
the  world — he  had  never  been  in  a  large  crowd  before — and 
it  is  not  to  be  denied  but  that  his  heart  beat  thick  and 
his  knees  trembled  a  little.  But  he  pulled  himself  together. 
Who  was  he  to  be  afraid  ?  But  the  books  under  his  arm 
were  a  nuisance.  He  suddenly  dropped  them  in  amongst 
the  legs  and  boots  of  the  people. 

There  were  many  interesting  sights  to  be  seen  in  the 
market-place,  but  he  could  not  stay,  and  he  found  himself 
soon,  to  his  own  surprise,  slipping  through  the  people  as 
quietly  and  easily  as  though  he  had  done  it  all  his  days, 
only  always  he  kept  his  hand  on  his  money  lest  that  should 
be  stolen  and  his  adventure  suddenly  come  to  nothing. 

He  knew  his  way  very  well,  and  soon  he  was  at  the 
end  of  Einch  Street  which  in  those  days  opened  straight 
into  fields  and  hedges. 


THE  MERRY-GO-ROU:NrD  273 

Even  now,  so  little  has  Polchester  grown  in  thirty  years, 
the  fields  and  hedges  are  not  very  far  away.  Here  there 
was  a  stile  with  a  large  wooden  fence  on  either  side  of  it, 
and  a  red-faced  man  saying:  "Pay  your  sixpences  now! 
Come  along  .  .  .  pay  your  sixpences  now."  Crowds  of 
people  were  passing  through  the  stile,  jostling  one  an- 
other, pressing  and  pushing,  but  all  apparently  in  good 
temper,  for  there  was  a  great  deal  of  laughter  and  merri- 
ment. From  the  other  side  of  the  fence  came  a  torrent 
of  sound,  so  discordant  and  so  tumultuous  that  it  was 
impossible  to  separate  the  elements  of  it  one  from  another 
— screams,  shrieks,  the  bellowing  of  animals,  and  the 
monotonous  rise  and  fall  of  scraps  of  tune,  several  bars 
of  one  and  then  bars  of  another,  and  then  everything  lost 
together  in  the  general  babel;  and  to  the  right  of  him 
Jeremy  could  see  not  very  far  away  quiet  fields  with  cows 
gi'azing,  and  the  dark  grave  wood  on  the  horizon. 

Would  he  venture  ?  For  a  moment  his  heart  failed 
him — a  wave  of  something  threatening  and  terribly  power- 
ful seemed  to  come  out  to  him  through  the  stile,  and  the 
people  who  were  passing  in  looked  large  and  fierce.  Then 
he  saw  two  small  boys,  their  whole  bearing  one  of  audacious 
boldness,  push  through.  He  was  not  going  to  be  beaten. 
He  followed  a  man  with  a  back  like  a  wall.  "One,  please," 
he  said. 

"Come  along  now  .  .  .  pay  your  sixpences  .  .  .  pay 
your  sixpences,"  cried  the  man.  He  was  through.  He 
stepped  at  once  into  something  that  had  for  him  all  the 
elements  of  the  most  terrifying  and  enchanting  of  faiiy 
tales.  He  was  planted,  it  seemed,  in  a  giant  world.  At 
first  he  could  see  nothing  but  the  high  and  thick  bodies 
of  the  people  who  moved  on  every  side  of  him ;  he  peered 


274  JEEEMY 

under  shoulders,  he  was  lost  amongst  legs  and  arms,  he 
walked  suddenly  into  waistcoat  buttons  and  was  flung 
thence  on  to  walking  sticks. 

But  it  was,  if  he  had  known  it,  the  most  magical  hour 
of  all  for  him  to  have  chosen.  It  was  the  moment  when 
the  sun,  sinking  behind  the  woods  and  hills,  leaves  a  faint 
white  crystal  sky  and  a  world  transformed  in  an  instant 
from  sharp  outlines  and  material  form  into  coloured  mist 
and  rising  vapour.  The  Fair  also  was  transformed,  put- 
ting forward  all  its  lights  and  becoming,  after  the  glaring 
tawdiness  of  the  day,  a  place  of  shadow  and  sudden  circles 
of  flame  and  dim  obscurity. 

Lights,  even  as  Jeremy  watched,  sprang  into  the  air, 
wavered,  faltered,  hesitated,  then  rocked  into  a  steady 
glow,  only  shifting  a  little  with  the  haze.  On  either  side 
of  him  were  rough,  wooden  stalls,  and  these  were  illumi- 
nated with  gas,  which  sizzled  and  hissed  like  angry  snakes. 
The  stalls  were  covered  with  everything  invented  by  man ; 
here  a  sweet  stall,  with  thick,  sticky  lumps  of  white  and 
green  and  red,  glass  bottles  of  bulls'  eyes  and  peppermints, 
thick  slabs  of  almond  toffee  and  pink  cocoanut  icing,  boxes 
of  round  chocolate  creams  and  sticks  of  liquorice,  lumps 
of  gingerbread,  with  coloured  pictures  stuck  upon  them, 
saffron  buns,  plum  cakes  in  glass  jars,  and  chains  of  little 
sugary  biscuits  hanging  on  long  red  strings.  There  was 
the  old-clothes'  stall  with  trousers  and  coats  and  waistcoats, 
all  shabby  and  lanky,  swinging  beneath  the  gas,  and  piles 
of  clothes  on  the  boards,  all  nondescript  and  unhappy  and 
faded ;  there  was  the  stall  with  the  farm  implements,  and 
the  medicine  stall,  and  the  flower  stall,  and  the  vegetable 
stall,  and  many,  many  another.  Each  place  had  his  or  her 
guardian,  vociferous,  red-faced,  screaming  out  the  wares. 


THE  MEKRY-GO-KOUND  275 

lowering  the  voice  to  cajole,  raising  it  again  to  draw  back 
a  retreating  customer,  carrying  on  suddenly  an.  intimate 
conversation  with  the  next-door  shopkeeper,  laughing, 
quarrelling,  arguing. 

To  Jeremy  it  was  a  world  of  giant  heights  and  depths. 
Behind  the  stalls,  beyond  the  lane  down  which  he  moved, 
was  an  uncertain  glory,  a  threatening  peril.  I'^e  fancied 
that  strange  animals  moved  there;  he  thought  he  heard  a 
lion  roar  and  an  elephant  bellow.  The  din  of  the  sellers 
all  about  him  made  it  impossible  to  tell  what  was  happen- 
ing beyond  there;  only  the  lights  and  bells,  shouts  and 
cries,  confusing  smells,  and  a  great  roar  of  distant  voices. 

He  almost  wished  that  he  had  not  come,  he  felt  so  very 
small  and  helpless ;  he  wondered  whether  he  could  find  his 
way  out  again,  and  looking  back,  he  was  for  a  moment 
terrified  to  see  that  the  stream  of  people  behind  him  shut 
him  in  so  that  he  could  not  see  the  stile,  nor  the  wooden 
barrier,  nor  the  red-faced  man.  Pushed  forward,  he  found 
himself  at  the  end  of  the  lane  and  standing  in  a  semi- 
circular space  surrounded  by  strange-looking  booths  with 
painted  pictures  upon  them,  and  in  front  of  them  plat- 
forms with  wooden  steps  running  up  to  them.  Then, 
so  unexpectedly  that  he  gave  a  little  scream,  a  sud- 
den roar  burst  out  behind  him.  He  turned  and,  indeed, 
the  world  seemed  to  have  gone  mad.  A  moment  ago  there 
had  been  darkness  and  dim  shadow.  ^NTow,  suddenly,  there 
was  a  huge  whistling,  tossing  circle  of  light  and  flame,  and 
from  the  centre  of  this  a  banging,  brazen,  cymbal-clashing 
scream  issued — a  scream  that,  through  its  strident  shrill- 
ness, he  recognised  as  a  tune  that  he  knew — a  tune  often 
whistled  by  Jim  at  Cow  Farm.  "And  her  golden  hair 
was  hanging  down  her  back."    Whence  the  tune  came  he 


276  JEKEMY 

could  not  tell ;  from  tlie  very  belly  of  the  flaming  monster, 
it  seemed ;  but,  as  he  watched,  he  saw  that  the  huge  circle 
whirled  ever  faster  and  faster,  and  that  up  and  down  on 
the  flame  of  it  coloured  horses  rose  and  fell,  vanishing 
from  light  to  darkness,  from  darkness  to  light,  and  seeming 
of  their  own  free  will  and  motion  to  dance  to  the  thunder- 
ing music. 

It  was  the  most  terrific  thing  that  he  had  ever  seen.  The 
most  terrific  thing.  .  .  .  He  stood  there,  his  cap  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  his  legs  apart,  his  mouth  open;  forget- 
ting utterly  the  crowd,  thinking  nothing  of  time  or  danger 
or  punishment — he  gazed  with  his  whole  body. 

As  his  eyes  grew  more  accustomed  to  the  glare  of  the 
hissing  gas,  he  saw  that  in  the  centre  figures  were  painted 
standing  on  the  edge  of  a  pillar  that  revolved  without 
pause.  There  was  a  woman  with  flaming  red  cheeks,  a 
gold  dress  and  dead  white  dusty  arms,  a  man  with  a 
golden  crown  and  a  purple  robe,  but  a  broken  nose,  and  a 
minstrel  with  a  harp.  The  woman  and  the  king  moved 
stiffly  their  arms  up  and  down,  that  they  might  strike 
instruments,  one  a  cymbal  and  the  other  a  drum. 

But  it  was  finally  the  horses  that  caught  Jeremy's  heart. 
Half  of  them  at  least  were  without  riders,  and  the  empty 
ones  went  round  pathetically,  envying  the  more  successful 
ones  and  dancing  to  the  music  as  though  with  an  effort. 
One  especially  moved  Jeremy's  sympathy.  He  was  a  fine 
horse,  rather  fresher  than  the  others,  with  a  coal-black 
mane  and  great  black  bulging  eyes ;  his  saddle  was  of  gold 
and  his  trappings  of  red.  As  he  went  round  he  seemed 
to  catch  Jeremy's  eye  and  to  beg  him  to  come  to  him.  He 
rode  more  securely  than  the  rest,  rising  nobly  like  a  horse 
of  fine  breeding,  falling  again  with  an  implication   of 


THE  MEERY-GO-ROUJSTD  277 

restrained  force  as  though  he  would  say:  "I  have  only  to 
let  myself  go  and  there,  my  word,  you  would  see  where  I'd 
get  to."  His  bold  black  eyes  turned  beseechingly  to 
Jeremy — surely  it  was  not  only  a  trick  of  the  waving  gas ; 
the  boy  drew  closer  and  closer,  never  moving  his  gaze  from 
the  horses  who  had  hitherto  been  whirling  at  a  bacchanalian 
pace,  but  now,  as  at  some  sudden  secret  command,  suddenly 
slackened,  hesitated,  fell  into  a  gentle  jog-trot,  then  scarcely 
rose,  scarcely  fell,  were  suddenly  still.  Jeremy  saw  what 
it  was  that  you  did  if  you  wanted  to  ride.  A  stout  dirty 
man  came  out  amongst  the  horses  and,  resting  his  hands 
on  their  backs  as  though  they  were  less  than  nothing  to 
him,  shouted :  ^'ISTow's  your  chance,  lidies  and  gents !  Now, 
lidies  and  gents !  Come  along  hup !  Come  along  hup  ! 
The  ride  of  your  life  now !  A  'alfpenny  a  time  !  A  'alf- 
penny  a  time,  and  the  finest  ride  of  your  life !" 

People  began  to  mount  the  steps  that  led  on  to  the 
platform  where  the  horses  stood.  A  woman,  then  a  man 
and  a  boy,  then  two  men,  then  two  girls  giggling  together, 
then  a  man  and  a  girl. 

And  the  stout  fellow  shouted :  "Come  along  hup  !  Come 
along  hup !  Now,  lidies  and  gents !  A  'alfpenny  a  ride ! 
Come  along  hup !" 

Jeremy  noticed  then  that  the  fine  horse  with  the  black 
mane  had  stopped  close  beside  him.  Impossible  to  say 
whether  the  horse  had  intended  it  or  no !  He  was  staring 
now  in  front  of  him  with  the  innocent  stupid  gaze  that 
animals  can  assume  when  they  do  not  wish  to  give  them- 
selves away.  But  Jeremy  could  see  that  he  was  taking  it 
for  granted  that  Jeremy  understood  the  affair.  "If  you're 
such  a  fool  as  not  to  understand,"  he  seemed  to  say,  "well, 
then,  I  don't  want  you."    Jeremy  gazed,  and  the  reproach 


278  JEEEMY 

in  those  eyes  was  more  than  he  could  endure.  And  at  any 
moment  someone  else  might  settle  himself  on  that  beautiful 
back !  There,  that  stupid  fat  giggling  girl !  ISTo — she  had 
moved  elsewhere.  .  .  .  He  could  endure  it  no  longer  and, 
with  a  thumping  heart,  clutching  a  scalding  penny  in  a 
red-hot  hand,  he  mounted  the  steps.  "One  ride — little 
gen'elman.  'Ere  you  are!  'Old  on  now!  Oh,  you  wants 
that  one,  do  yer  ?  Right  yer  are — yer  pays  yer  money 
and  yer  takes  yer  choice."  He  lifted  Jeremy  up.  "Put 
yer  arms  round  'is  neck  now — 'e  won't  bite  yer !" 

Bite  him  indeed !  Jeremy  felt,  as  he  clutched  the  cool 
head  and  let  his  hand  slide  over  the  stiff  black  mane,  that 
he  knew  more  about  that  horse  than  his  owner  did.  He 
seemed  to  feel  beneath  him  the  horse's  response  to  his 
clutching  knees,  the  head  seemed  to  rise  for  a  moment  and 
nod  to  him  and  the  eyes  to  say:  "It's  all  right.  I'll  look 
after  you.    I'll  give  you  the  best  ride  of  your  life !" 

He  felt,  indeed,  that  the  gaze  of  the  whole  world  was 
upon  him,  but  he  responded  to  it  proudly,  staring  boldly 
around  him  as  though  he  had  been  seated  on  merry-go- 
rounds  all  his  days.  Perhaps  some  in  the  gaping  crowd 
knew  him  and  were  saying :  "Why,  there's  the  Rev.  Cole's 

kid "     ISTever  mind;   he  was  above  scandal.     From 

where  he  was  he  could  see  the  Pair  lifted  up  and  trans- 
lated into  a  fantastic  splendour.  Nothing  was  certain, 
nothing  defined — above  him  a  canopy  of  evening  sky,  with 
circles  and  chains  of  stars  mixed  with  the  rosy  haze  of 
the  flame  of  the  Fair;  opposite  him  was  the  Palace  of 
"The  Two-Headed  Giant  from  the  Caucasus,"  a  huge  man 
as  portrayed  in  the  picture  hanging  on  his  outer  walls,  a 
giant  naked,  save  for  a  bearskin,  with  one  head  black  and 
one  yellow,  and  white  protruding  teeth  in  both  mouths. 


THE  MERRY-GO-KOUJSTD  279 

N'ext  to  him  was  the  Fortune  Teller's,  and  outside  this  a 
little  man  with  a  hump  beat  a  drum.  Then  there  was  "The 
Theatre  of  Tragedy  and  Mirth,"  with  a  poster  on  one  side 
of  the  door  portraying  a  lady  drowning  in  the  swiftest  of 
rivers,  but  with  the  prospect  of  being  saved  by  a  stout 
gentleman  who  leaned  over  from  the  bank  and  grasped  her 
hair.  Then  there  was  the  "Chamber  of  the  Fat  Lady  and 
the  Six  Little  Dwarfs,"  and  the  entry  to  this  was  guarded 
by  a  dirty  sour-looking  female  who  gnashed  her  teeth  at  a 
hesitating  public,  before  whom,  with  a  splendid  indiffer- 
ence to  appearance,  she  consumed,  out  of  a  piece  of  news- 
paper, her  evening  meal. 

All  these  things  were  in  Jeremy's  immediate  vision, 
and  beyond  them  was  a  haze  that  his  eyes  could  not  pene- 
trate. It  held,  he  knew,  wild  beasts,  because  he  could  hear 
quite  clearly  from  time  to  time  the  lion  and  the  elephant" 
and  the  tiger;  it  held  music,  because  from  somewhere 
through  all  the  noise  and  confusion  the  tune  of  a  band 
penetrated;  it  held  buyers  and  sellers  and  treasures  and 
riches,  and  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  world — surely  all  the 
world  must  be  here  to-night.  And  then,  beyond  the  haze, 
there  were  the  silent  and  mysterious  gipsy  caravans.  Dark 
with  their  little  square  windows,  and  their  coloured  walls, 
and  their  round  wheels,  and  the  smell  of  wood  fires,  and 
the  noise  of  hissing  kettles  and  horses  cropping  the  grass, 
and  around  them  the  still  night  world  with  the  thick 
woods  and  the  dark  river. 

He  did  not  see  it  all  as  he  sat  on  his  horse — he  was,  as 
yet,  too  young;  but  he  did  feel  the  contrast  between  the 
din  and  glare  around  him  and  the  silence  and  dark  beyond, 
and,  afterwards,  looking  back,  he  knew  that  he  had  found 
in  that  same  contrast  the  very  heart  of  romance.     As  it 


280  JEEEMY 

was,  lie  simply  clutched  his  horse's  beautiful  head  and 
waited  for  the  ride  to  begin.  .  .  . 

Thej  were  off!  He  felt  his  horse  quiver  under  him, 
he  saw  the  mansions  of  the  Two-IIeaded  Giant  and  the 
Fat  Lady  slip  to  the  right,  the  light  seemed  to  swing  like 
the  skirt  of  someone's  dress,  upwards  across  the  floor,  and 
from  the  heart  of  the  golden  woman  and  the  king  and  the 
minstrel  a  scream  burst  forth  as  though  they  were  announc- 
ing the  end  of  the  world.  After  that  he  had  no  clear  idea 
as  to  what  occurred.  He  was  swung  into  space,  and  all  the 
life  that  had  been  so  stationary,  the  booths,  the  lights,  the 
men  and  women,  the  very  stars  went  swinging  with  him  as 
though  to  cheer  him  on;  the  horse  under  him  galloped 
before,  and  the  faster  he  galloped  the  wilder  was  the  music 
and  the  dizzier  the  world.  He  was  exultant,  omnipotent, 
supreme.  He  had  long  known  that  this  glory  was  some- 
where if  it  could  only  be  found,  all  his  days  he  seemed  to 
have  been  searching  for  it;  he  beat  his  horse's  neck,  he 
drove  his  legs  against  his  sides.  "Go  on !  Go  on !  Go  on !" 
he  cried.     "Faster !   Faster !    Faster !" 

The  strangest  things  seemed  to  rise  to  his  notice  and 
then  fall  again — a  peaked  policeman's  hat,  flowers,  a  sud- 
den flame  of  gas,  the  staring  eyes  and  dead  white  arms 
of  the  golden  woman,  the  flying  forms  of  the  horses  in 
front  of  him.  All  the  world  was  on  horseback,  all  the 
world  was  racing  higher  and  higher,  faster  and  faster.  He 
saw  someone  near  him  rise  on  to  his  horse's  back  and  stand 
on  it,  waving  his  arms.  He  would  like  to  have  done  that, 
but  he  found  that  he  was  part  of  his  horse,  as  though  he 
had  been  glued  to  it.  He  shouted,  he  cried  aloud,  he  was 
so  happy  that  he  thought  of  no  one  and  nothing.  .  .  .  The 
flame  danced  about  him  in  a  circle,  he  seemed  to  rise  so 


THE  IIERRY-GO-ROTTXD  281 

high  that  there  was  a  sudden  stillness,  he  was  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  stars;  then  came  the  supreme  moment  when, 
as  he  had  always  known,  that  one  day  he  would  l)e,  he  was 
master  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Then,  like  Lucifer,  he  fell. 
Slowly  the  stars  receded,  the  music  slackened,  people 
rocked  on  to  their  feet  again.  .  .  .  The  Two-IIeaded 
Giant  slipped  back  once  more  into  his  place,  he  saw  the 
sinister  lady  still  devouring  her  supper,  women  looking 
up  at  him  gaped.  His  horse  gave  a  last  little  leap  and 
died. 

This  marvellous  experience  he  repeated  four  times,  and 
every  time  with  an  ecstasy  more  complete  than  the  last. 

He  rushed  to  a  height,  he  fell,  he  rushed  again,  he  fell, 
and  at  every  return  to  a  sober  life  his  one  intention  was 
instantly  to  be  off  on  his  steed  once  more.  He  was  about  to 
start  on  his  fifth  journey,  he  had  paid  his  halfpenny,  he 
was  sitting  forward  with  his  hands  on  the  black  mane,  his 
eyes,  staring,  were  filled  already  with  the  glory  that  he 
knew  was  coming  to  him,  his  cheeks  were  crimson,  his 
hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  his  hair  flying.  He  heard  a 
voice,  quiet  and  cool,  a  little  below  him,  but  very  near: 

"Jeremy.  .  .  .  Jeremy.  Come  off  that.  You've  got 
to  go  home." 

He  looked  down  and  saw  his  Uncle  Samuel. 


IV 

It  was  all  over;  he  knew  at  once  that  it  was  all  over. 
As  he  slipped  down  from  his  dear  horse  he  gave  the 
glossy  dark  mane  one  last  pat;  then,  with  a  little  sigh, 
he  found  his  feet,  stumbled  over  the  wooden  steps  and 
was  at  his  imcle's  side. 


282  JEREMY 

Uncle  Samuel  looked  queer  enough  witli  a  squashy  black 
hat,  a  black  cloak  flung  over  his  shoulders,  and  a  large 
cherry-wood  pipe  in  his  mouth.  Jeremy  looked  up  at  him 
defiantly. 

'^Well,"  said  Uncle  Samuel  sarcastically.  ''It's  nothing 
to  you,  I  suppose,  that  the  town-crier  is  at  this  moment 
ringing  his  bell  for  you  up  and  down  the  Market  Place?" 

"Does  father  know  ?"  Jeremy  asked  quickly. 

"He  does,"  answered  Uncle  Samuel. 

Jeremy  cast  one  last  look  around  the  place ;  the  merry- 
go-round  was  engaged  once  more  upon  its  wild  course,  the 
horses  rising  and  falling,  the  golden  woman  clashing  the 
cymbals,  the  minstrel  striking,  with  his  dead  eyes  fixed 
upon  space,  his  harp.  All  about  men  were  shouting; 
the  noise  of  the  coconut  stores,  of  the  circus,  of  the  band, 
of  the  hucksters  and  the  charlatans,  the  crying  of  children, 
the  laughter  of  women — all  the  noise  of  the  Fair  bathed 
Jeremy  up  to  his  forehead. 

He  swam  in  it  for  the  last  time.  He  tried  to  catch 
one  last  glimpse  of  his  coal-black  charger,  then,  with  a 
sigh,  he  said,  turning  to  his  uncle:  "I  suppose  we'd  better 
be  going." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  we  had,"  said  Uncle  Samuel. 

They  threaded  their  way  through  the  Fair,  passed  the 
wooden  stile,  and  were  once  again  in  the  streets,  dark  and 
ancient  under  the  moon,  with  all  the  noise  and  glare 
behind  them.  Jeremy  was  thinking  to  himself :  "It  doesn't 
matter  what  Father  does,  or  how  angry  he  is,  that  was 
worth  it."  It  was  strange  how  little  afraid  he  was.  Only 
a  year  ago  to  be  punished  by  his  father  had  been  a  terrible 
thing.  ISTow,  since  his  mother's  illness  in  the  summer,  his 
father  had  seemed  to  have  no  influence  over  him. 


THE  MERRY-GO-ROmTD  283 

.  "Did  they  send  you,  or  did  you  just  come  yourself^ 
Uncle?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"I  happened  to  be  taking  the  air  in  that  direction," 
said  Uncle  Samuel. 

"I  hope  you  didn't  come  away  before  you  wanted  to," 
said  Jeremy  politely. 

"I  did  not,"  said  his  uncle. 

"Is  Father  very  angry  ?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"It's  more  than  likely  he  may  be.  The  Town  Crier's 
expensive." 

"I  didn't  think  they'd  know,"  explained  Jeremy.  "I 
meant  to  get  back  in  time." 

"Your  father  didn't  go  to  church,"  said  Uncle  Samuel. 
"So  your  sins  were  quickly  discovered." 

Jeremy  said  nothing. 

Just  as  they  were  climbing  Orange  Street  he  said: 

"Uncle  Samuel,  I  think  I'll  be  a  horse-trainer." 

"Oh,  will  you?  .  .  .  Well,  before  you  train  horses 
you've  got  to  train  yourself.  Think  of  others  beside  your- 
self.    A  fine  state  you've  put  your  mother  into  to-night." 

Jeremy  looked  distressed.  ''She'd  know  if  I  was  dead, 
someone  would  come  and  tell  her,"  he  said.  "But  I'll 
tell  Mother  I'm  sorry.  .  .  .  But  I  won't  tell  Father,"  he 
added. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Uncle  Samuel. 

"Because  he'll  make  such  a  fuss.  And  I'm  not  sorry. 
He  never  told  me  not  to." 

"Xo,  but  you  knew  you  hadn't  to." 

"I'm  very  good  at  obeying,"  explained  Jeremy,  "if 
someone  says  something;  but  if  someone  doesn't,  there 
isn't  anyone  to  obey." 


284  JEREMY 

Uncle  Samuel  shook  his  head.  "You'll  be  a  bit  of  a 
prig,  my  son,  if  you  aren't  careful,"  he  said. 

"I  think  it  will  be  splendid  to  be  a  horse-trainer,"  said 
Jeremy.  "It  was  a  lovely  horse  to-night.  .  .  .  And  I 
only  spent  a  shilling.  I  had  three  and  threepence  half- 
penny." 

At  the  door  of  their  house  Uncle  Samuel  stopped  and 
said: 

"Look  here,  young  man,  they  say  it's  time  you  went 
to  school,  and  I  don't  think  they're  far  wrong.  There  are 
things  wiser  heads  than  yours  can  understand,  and  you'd 
better  take  their  word  for  it.  In  the  future,  if  you  want 
to  go  running  off  somewhere,  you'd  better  content  yourself 
with  my  studio  and  make  a  mess  there.'^ 

"Oh,  may  I  ?"  cried  Jeremy  delighted. 

That  studio  had  been  always  a  forbidden  place  to  them, 
and  had,  therefore,  its  air  of  enchanting  mystery. 

"Won't  you  really  mind  my  coming  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  shall  probably  hate  it,"  answered  his  uncle;  "but 
there's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  for  the  family." 

The  boy  walked  to  his  father's  study  and  knocked  on 
the  door.  lie  did  have  then,  at  the  sound  of  that  knock, 
a  moment  of  panic.  The  house  was  so  silent,  and  he  knew 
so  well  what  would  follow  the  opening  of  the  door.  And 
the  worst  of  it  was  that  he  was  not  sorry  in  the  least.  He 
seemed  to  be  indifferent  and  superior,  as  though  no  pun- 
ishment could  touch  him. 

"Come  in!"  said  his  father. 

He  pushed  open  the  door  and  entered.  The  scene  that 
followed  was  grave  and  sad,  and  yet,  in  the  end,  strangely 
unimpressive.  His  father  talked  too  much.  As  he  talked 
Jeremy's  thoughts  would  fly  back  to  the  coal-black  horse, 


THE  MERRY-GO-ROUND  285 

and  to  that  moment  when  he  had  seemed  to  %  into  the 
very  heart  of  the  stars. 

"iUi,  Jeremy,  how  could  you?"  said  his  father.  "Is 
obedience  nothing  to  you  ?  Do  you  know  how  God  pun- 
ishes disobedience?  Think  what  a  terrible  thing  is  a 
disobedient  man!"  Then  on  a  lower  scale:  "I  really 
don't  know  what  to  do  with  you.  You  knew  that  you  were 
not  to  go  near  that  wicked  place." 

"You  never  said "  interrupted  Jeremy. 

"Xonseuse !  You  knew  well  enough.  You  will  break 
your  mother's  heart." 

"I'll  tell  her  I'm  sorry,"  he  interrupted  quickly. 

"If  you  are  really  sorry "  said  his  father. 

"I'm  not  sorry  I  went,"  said  Jeremy,  "but  I'm  sorry 
I  hurt  Mother." 

The  end  of  it  was  that  Jeremy  received  six  strokes  on 
the  hand  with  a  ruler.  Mr.  Cole  was  not  good  at  this 
kind  of  thing,  and  twice  he  missed  Jeremy's  hand  alto- 
gether, and  looked  very  foolish.  It  was  not  an  edifying 
scene.  Jeremy  left  the  room,  his  head  high,  his  spirit 
obstinate;  and  his  father  remained,  puzzled,  distressed,  at 
a  loss,  anxious  to  do  what  was  right,  but  unable  to  touch 
his  son  at  all. 

Jeremy  went  up  to  his  room.  He  opened  his  window 
and  looked  out.  He  could  smell  the  burnt  leaves  of  the 
bonfire.  There  was  no  flame  now,  but  he  fancied  that  he 
could  see  a  white  shadow  where  it  had  been.  Then,  on 
the  wind,  came  the  music  of  the  Pair. 

"Turn — te — Turn  .  .  .  Tum — te — Turn  .  .  .  "WTiirr — 
Whirr — "Whirr — Bang — Bang." 

Somewhere  an  owl  cried,  and  then  another  owl  answered. 


2SQ  JEREMY 

lie  rubbed  liis  sore  hand  against  bis  trousers;  then, 
thinking  of  his  black  horse,  he  smiled. 

He  was  a  free  man.  In  a  week  he  would  go  to  school ; 
then  he  would  go  to  College;  then  he  would  be  a  horse- 
trainer. 

lie  was  in  bed;  faintly  into  the  dark  room  stole  the 
scent  of  the  bonfire  and  the  noise  of  the  Fair. 

"Turn — te — Turn  .  .  .  Tum — te — Tum  ..." 

He  was  asleep,  riding  on  a  giant  charger  across  bound- 
less plains. 


CHAPTER   XII 

HAMLET   WAITS 


THE  last  day!  Jeremy,  suddenly  waking,  realised 
this  with  a  confusion  of  feeling  as  though  he  were 
sentenced  to  the  dentist's,  but,  oddly  enough,  looked  for- 
ward to  his  visit.  Going  to  school,  one  had,  of  course, 
long  ago  perceived,  was  a  mixed  business ;  but  the  balance 
was  now  greatly  to  the  good.  It  was  a  step  in  the  right 
direction  towards  liberty  and  freedom.  Thank  Heaven! 
ISTo  one  in  the  family  was  likely  to  make  a  fuss  about  his 
departure,  unless  it  were  possibly  Mary,  and  she  had,  of 
late,  kept  very  much  to  herself  and  worried  him  scarcely 
at  all.  Indeed,  he  felt  guilty  about  Mary.  He  was  fond 
of  her,  really.  .  .  .  Funny  kid.  ...  If  only  she  didn't 
make  fusses ! 

Yes,  it  was  unlike  his  family  to  make  fusses.  He 
realised  that  very  plainly  to-day.  Everyone  went  about, 
his  or  her  daily  business  with  no  implication  whatever 
that  something  extraordinary  was  going  to  happen  to- 
morrow. Perhaps  they  were  all  secretly  relieved  that  he 
was  off.  He  had  been,  he  knew,  something  of  a  failure 
during  these  last  months;  one  trouble  after  another;  the 
scandal  of  his  visit  to  the  Fair  as  the  grand  finale.  He 
felt  that  there  was,  in  some  way,  some  injustice  in  all 
this.     He  had  no  desire  to  be  bad  or  rebellious — on  the 

287 


288  JEKEMY 

contrary  lie  wished  to  do  all  that  his  elders  ordered  him — • 
but  he  could  not  prevent  the  rising  of  his  own  individual- 
ity, which  showed  him  quite  clearly  whether  he  should 
do  a  thing  or  no.  It  was  as  though  something  inside  him 
pusJied  him  .  .  .  whereas  they,  all  of  them,  only  checked 
him. 

He  loved  his  mother  best,  and  he  was  secretly  disap- 
pointed to  find  how  ordinary  an  affair  his  departure  was 
to  her.  He  realised,  with  a  perception  that  was  beyond 
his  years,  that  the  infant  Barbara  was  now  rapidly  occupy- 
ing the  position,  as  centre  of  the  family,  that  he  had  held. 
Barbara,  everyone  declared,  was  a  charming  baby — ^the 
house  revolved,  to  some  extent,  round  Barbara.  But,  then 
again,  this  isolation  was  entirely  his  own  fault.  During 
the  summer  holidays  he  had  gone  his  own  way,  and  had 
wanted  no  one  but  Hamlet  as  his  companion.  He  had 
no  right  to  complain. 

After  breakfast  he  did  not  know  quite  what  to  do,  and 
it  was  obvious,  also,  that  no  one  knew  quite  what  to  do 
with  him. 

Mrs.  Cole  said :  "Jeremy,  dear.  Pouting  has  never  sent 
that  letter  paper  and  envelopes  that  he  promised,  and 
Father  must  have  them  to-day.  Would  you  go  down  and 
bring  them  back  with  you  ?    Father  will  write  a  note." 

^0  one  seemed  to  realise  what  an  abysmal  change  from 
earlier  conditions  this  casual  sentence  marked.  That  he 
should  go  to  Ponting's,  which  was  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  town,  alone  and  unattended,  seemed  to  no  one  peculiar ; 
and  yet,  only  six  months  ago,  a  walk  without  Miss  Jones 
was  undreamt  of;  and,  before  her,  no  more  than  nine 
months  back,  there  was  the  Jampot !  He  was  delighted  to 
go;  but,  of  course,  he  did  not  show  his  delight. 


HAMLET  WAITS  289 

All  he  said  was :  "Yes,  Mother." 

He  was  in  his  new  clothes:  stiff  black  jacket,  black 
knickerbockers,  black  stockings,  black  boots.  No  more 
navy  suits  with  white  braid  and  whistles !  Perhaps  he 
would  see  the  Dean's  Ernest.  It  was  his  most  urgent 
desire ! 

He  started  off,  accompanied  by  a  barking,  bounding 
Hamlet,  who  showed  no  perception  of  the  calamity  that 
threatened  to  tumble  upon  him.  For  Jeremy,  leaving 
Hamlet  was  a  dreadful  affair.  In  three  months  a  dog  can 
change  more  swiftly  than  a  human  being,  and  Hamlet, 
although  not  a  supremely  greedy  dog,  had  shown  of  late 
increasing  signs  of  a  love  of  good  food,  and  a  regrettable 
tendency  to  fawn  upon  the  giver  of  the  same,  even  when 
it  was  Aunt  Amy.  Jeremy  had  checked  this  tendency, 
and  had  issued  punishments  when  necessary,  and  Hamlet 
had  accepted  the  same  without  a  murmur.  So  long  as 
Jeremy  was  there  Hamlet's  character  was  secure ;  but  now, 
during  this  long  absence,  anything  might  happen.  There 
was  no  one  to  whom  Jeremy  might  leave  him;  no  one 
who  had  the  slightest  idea  what  a  dog  should  do  and  what 
he  should  not. 

These  melancholy  thoughts  filled  Jeremy's  mind  when 
he  started  upon  his  walk,  but  soon  he  was  absorbed  by 
his  surroundings.  He  realised  even  more  drastically  than 
the  facts  warranted  that  he  was  making  his  farewell  to 
the  town. 

He  was  not  making  his  final  farewell;  he  would  not 
make  that  until  his  death,  and,  perhaps,  not  then;  but 
he  was  making  farewell  to  some  of  his  sense  of  his  wonder 
in  it,  only  not,  thank  God,  to  the  sense  of  wonder  itself ! 

As  he  went  he  met  the  daily  figures  of  all  his  walks, 


290  JEKEMY 

and  he  could  not  help  but  speculate  on  their  realisation 
of  the  gi'eat  change  that  was  coming  to  him.  It  was 
absurd  to  suppose  that  they  were  saying  to  themselves: 
"Ah,  there's  young  Jeremy  Cole!  He's  off  to  school  to- 
morrow. I  wonder  what  he  feels  about  it!  .  .  ."  Xo, 
that  was  incredible,  and  yet  they  must  realise  something 
of  the  adventure. 

He,  on  his  part,  stared  at  them  with  a  new  interest. 
They  had  before  shared  in  the  inevitable  background  with- 
out individuality.  But  now  that  he  was  leaving  them,  and 
they  would  grow,  as  it  were,  without  his  permission,  he 
was  forced  to  grant  them  independence.  At  the  bottom 
of  Orange  Street  he  met  Mr.  Dawson,  the  Cathedral 
Organist ;  he  was  a  little,  plump  man,  in  a  very  neat  grey 
suit,  a  shiny  top  hat,  and  very  small  spats.  He  was 
always  dressed  in  the  same  fashion,  and  carried  a  black 
music-case  under  his  arm.  He  had  an  eternal  interest  for 
Jeremy  because,  whenever  he  was  mentioned,  the  phrase 
was:  "Poor  little  Mr.  Dawson !"  ^\^hy  he  was  to  be  pitied 
Jeremy  did  not  know.  He  looked  spruce  and  bright 
enough,  and  generally  whistled  to  himself  as  he  walked; 
but  "poor"  was  an  exciting  adjective,  and  Jeremy,  when 
he  passed  him,  felt  a  little  shudder  of  drama  run  down 
his  spine. 

Outside  Poole's  bookshop  there  was,  of  course,  Mr. 
Mockridge.  Mr.  Mockridge  was  the  poorest  of  the  Canons ; 
so  poor,  that  it  had  become  a  proverb  in  the  place:  "As 
poor  as  Mr.  Mockridge" ;  and  also  another  proverb,  I  am 
afraid,  from  the  same  source:  "As  dirty  as  Mr.  Mock- 
ridge." He  was  a  very  long,  thin  man,  with  a  big,  pointing 
nose,  coloured  red,  not  from  indigestion,  and  most  certainly 
not  from  drink,  but  simply,  I  think,  because  the  wind 


HAMLET  WAITS  291 

caught  it.  His  passion  was  for  books,  and  lie  might  be 
seen  every  afternoon,  between  three  and  four  o'clock,  bend- 
ing over  Poole's  2d.  box,  a  dirty  handkerchief  flying  out 
of  the  tail  of  his  long,  black  coat,  and  a  green,  bulging 
umbrella,  pointing  outwards,  under  his  arm,  to  the  infinite 
danger  of  all  the  passers-by.  He  was  so  commonplace  a 
figure  to  Jeremy  that,  on  ordinary  days,  he  was  shrouded 
by  an  invisibility  of  tradition.  But,  to-day,  he  was  fresh 
and  strange.  "He'll  be  here  to-morrow  poking  his  nose 
into  that  box  just  the  same,  and  I  shall  be " 

Then,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Market  Place,  Jeremy 
paused  and  looked  about  him.  There  was  all  the  usual 
business  of  the  place — the  wooden  trestles  with  the  flower- 
pots, the  apple-woman  under  her  umbrella,  the  empty 
cattle-pens,  where  the  cows  and  sheep  stood  on  market 
days,  and  behind  them  the  dark,  vaulted  arches  of  the 
actual  market,  now  empty  and  deserted.  Bathed  in  sun- 
light it  lay  very  quiet  and  still ;  some  pigeons  pecking  at 
grain,  a  dog  or  two,  and  children  playing  round  the  empty 
cattle-stalls.  From  the  hill  above  the  square  the  Cathe- 
dral boomed  the  hour,  and  all  the  pigeons  rose  in  a  flight, 
hovered,  then  slowly  settled  again. 

Jeremy  sighed,  and,  with  a  strange  pain  at  his  heart 
that  he  could  not  analyse,  moved  up  the  hill.  The  High. 
Street  is,  of  course,  the  West  End  of  Polchester,  and  in 
the  morning,  between  ten  and  one,  every  lady  in  the  town 
may  be  seen  at  her  shopping.  It  had  always  been  th& 
ambition  of  the  Cole  children  to  be  taken  for  their  walk 
up  High  Street  in  the  morning;  but  it  was  an  ambition 
very  rarely  gratified,  because  they  stopped  so  often  and 
were  always  in  everyone's  way.  And  here  was  Jeremy,  at 
this  gay  hour,  strolling  up  the  High  Street  all  by  himself. 


292  JEREMY 

He  lifted  his  head,  pushed  out  his  chest,  and  looked  the 
world  in  the  face.  He  might  meet  the  Dean's  Ernest  at 
any  moment.  The  first  people  whom  he  saw  were  the 
Misses  Cragg — always  known,  of  course,  as  "The  Cragg 
girls."  They  were,  perhaps,  Polchester's  most  constant 
and  obvious  feature.  There  were  four  of  them,  all  as  yet 
immarried,  all  with  brown-red  faces  and  hard  straw  hats, 
short  skirts,  and  tremendous  voices;  forerunners,  in  fact, 
of  a  type  now  almost  universal.  They  played  croquet  and 
lawn-tennis,  were  prominent  members  of  the  Archery  Club, 
and  hunted  when  their  fathers  would  let  them.  They  were 
terrible  Dianas  to  Jeremy.  He  had  met  one  of  them  once 
at  a  Children's  Dance,  and  she  had  whirled  him  around 
until,  with  a  terrified  scream,  he  broke,  howling,  from 
her  arms,  and  hid  himself  in  the  large  bosom  of  the 
Jampot.  He  was  always  ashamed  of  this  memory,  and 
he  could  never  see  them  without  blushing;  but,  to-day,  he 
seemed  less  afraid  of  them,  and  actually,  when  he  passed 
them,  touched  his  hat  and  looked  them  in  the  face.  They 
all  smiled  and  nodded  to  him,  and  when  they  had  gone 
he  was  so  deeply  astonished  at  this  adventure  that  he  had 
to  stop  and  consider  himself.  If  the  Craggs  were  nothing 
to  him,  what  might  he  not  face  ? 

"Come  here,  Hamlet.  How  dare  you  ?"  he  ordered  in 
so  sharp  and  military  a  voice  that  Hamlet,  who  had  merely 
cast  a  most  innocent  glance  at  a  disdainful  and  conceited 
white  poodle,  looked  up  at  his  master  with  surprise. 

ISTevertheless,  his  new-found  hardihood  received,  in  the 
very  midst  of  his  self-congratulation,  its  severest  test.  He 
stumbled  into  the  very  path  of  the  Dean's  wife. 

Mrs.  Dean  could  never  have  seemed  to  anyone  a  large 
woman,  but  to  Jeremy  she  had  always  been  a  terror.    She 


HAMLET  WAITS  293 

was  thick  and  hard,  like  a  wall,  and  wore  the  kind  of 
silken  clothes,  that  rustled — like  the  whispering  of  a  whole 
meeting  of  frightened  clergymen's  wives — as  she  moved. 
She  had  a  hard,  condemnatory  voice,  and  she  spoke  as 
though  she  were  addressing  an  assembly;  but,  worst  of 
all,  she  had  black,  beetling  eyebrows,  and  these  frightened 
Jeremy  into  fits.  He  did  not,  of  course,  know  that  the 
poor  lady  suffered  continually  from  nervous  headaches. 

He  suddenly  heard  that  voice  in  his  ear:  "Good  morn- 
ing, Jeremy,  and  where  are  you  off  to  so  early?"  Mrs. 
Dean  was  never  so  awful  as  when  she  was  jolly,  and 
Jeremy,  caught  up  by  the  eyebrows  as  though  they  had 
been  hooks  and  hung  thus  in  mid-air  for  all  the  street  to 
laugh  at,  nearly  lost  his  command  of  his  natural  tongue. 
He  found  his  voice  just  in  time: 

'To  Pouting' s,"  he  said. 

'All  alone?  Ah,  no,  I  see  you  have  your  little  dog. 
Nice  little  dog.     And  how's  your  mother  ?" 

"She's  quite  well,  thank  you." 

^'That's  right — that's  right.  We  haven't  seen  you  lately. 
You  must  come  up  to  tea  with  your  sisters.  I'm  afraid 
you  won't  find  Ernest,  he's  gone  back  to  school — but  I 
dare  say  you're  not  too  big  to  play  with  little  girls." 

Jeremy  felt  some  triumph  at  his  heart. 

"I'm  going  to  school  to-morrow,"  he  said.  But  if  he 
expected  Mrs.  Dean  to  be  pitiful  at  this  statement  he  was 
greatly  mistaken. 

"Are  you,  indeed  ?  Such  a  pity  you  couldn't  have  gone 
with  Ernest — but  he'd  be  senior  to  you,  of  course.  .  .  . 
Good-bye.  Good-bye.  Give  my  love  to  your  mother,"  and 
she  pounded  her  way  along. 

"She's  a  beastly  woman  anyway,"  thought  Jeremy.    "I 


294:  JEREMY 

wish  I'd  found  something  to  say  to  her.  I  wonder  whether 
she  knows  I  knocked  Ernest  down  in  the  summer  and 
trod  on  him  ?" 

But  the  sight  of  the  High  Street  soon  restored  his 
equanimity.  On  other  occasions  he  had  been  pushed 
through  it,  either  by  the  Jampot  or  Miss  Jones,  so  rapidly 
that  he  could  gather  only  the  most  fleeting  impressions. 
To-day  he  could  linger  and  linger ;  he  did.  The  two  nicest 
shops  were  Mannings'  the  hairdressers  and  Ponting's  the 
book-shop,  but  Rose  the  grocer's,  and  Coulter's  the  con- 
fectioner's were  very  good.  Mr.  Manning  was  an  artist. 
He  did  not  simply  put  a  simpering  bust  with  an  elab- 
orate head  of  hair  in  his  window  and  leave  it  at  that — he 
did,  indeed,  place  there  a  smiling  lady  with  a  wonderful 
jewelled  comb  and  a  radiant  row  of  teeth,  but  around  this 
he  built  up  a  magnificent  world  of  silver  brushes,  tortoise- 
shell  combs,  essences  and  perfumes  and  powders,  jars  and 
bottles  and  boxes.  Mamiing  was  the  finest  artist  in  the 
town.  Pouting,  at  the  top  of  the  street  just  at  the  corner 
of  the  Close,  was  an  artist  too,  but  in  quite  another  fashion. 
Pouting  was  the  best  established,  most  sacred  and  serious 
bookseller  in  the  county.  In  the  days  when  the  new 
"Waverley"  was  the  sensation  of  the  moment  Mr.  Pouting, 
grandfather  of  the  present  Mr.  Pouting,  had  been  in  quite 
constant  correspondence  with  Mr.  Southey,  and  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge, and  had  once,  when  on  a  visit  to  London,  spoken 
to  the  great  Lord  Byron  himself.  This  tradition  of  aris- 
tocracy remained,  and  the  present  Mr.  Pouting  always 
advised  the  Bishop  what  to  read  and  was  consulted  by 
Mrs.  Lamb,  our  only  authoress,  on  questions  of  publishers 
and  editions  and  such  technical  points.  For  all  this  Jeremy, 
at  his  present  stage  of  interest,  would  have  cared  nothing 


HAMLET  WAITS  295 

even  had  he  known  it,  but  what  he  did  care  for  were  the 
rows  of  calf-bound  books  with  little  ridges  of  gold,  that 
made  a  fine  wall  across  the  window  with  an  old  print  of 
the  Cathedral  and  the  Close  in  the  middle  of  them.  Inside 
Pontings  there  was  a  hush  as  of  the  study  and  the  church 
combined.  It  was  a  rather  dark  shop  with  rows  and  rows 
of  books  disappearing  into  the  ceiling,  and  one  grave  and 
unnaturally  old  young  man  behind  the  counter.  Jeremy 
did  not  know  what  he  should  do  about  Hamlet,  so  he 
brought  him  inside,  only  to  discover  to  his  horror  that  the 
fiercest  of  all  the  Canons,  Canon  Waterbury,  held  the  floor 
of  the  shop.  Canon  Waterbury  had  a  black  beard  and  a 
biting  tongue.  He  had  once  warned  Jeremy  off  the 
Cathedral  grass  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  and  Jeremy  had 
never  forgotten  it.  He  glared  now  and  pulled  his  beard, 
but  Hamlet  fortunately  behaved  well,  and  the  old  young 
man  discovered  Jeremy's  notepaper  within  a  very  short 
period. 

Then  suddenly  the  Canon  spoke. 

'^Dogs  should  not  be  inside  shops,"  he  said,  as  though 
he  were  condemning  someone  to  death. 

"I  know,"  said  Jeremy  frankly.  "I  wanted  to  tie  him 
up  to  something  and  there  was  nothing  to  tie  him  up  to." 

''What  did  you  bring  him  out  for  at  all?"  said  the 
Canon. 

"Because  he's  got  to  have  exercise,"  said  Jeremy,  dis- 
covering, to  his  own  delighted  surprise,  that  he  was  not 
frightened  in  the  least. 

"Oh,  has  he  ?    I  don't  know  what  people  keep  dogs  for." 

And  then  he  stamped  out  of  the  shop. 

Jeremy  regarded  this  in  the  light  of  a  victory  and 
marched  away,  his  head  more  in  the  air  than  ever.     He 


296  JEEEMY 

should  now  have  hurried  home.  The  midday  chimes  had 
rung  out  and  Jeremy's  duties  were  performed.  But  he 
lingered,  listening  to  the  last  notes  of  the  chimes,  hearing 
the  cries  of  the  Cathedral  choir-boys  as  they  moved  across 
the  green  to  the  choir-school,  watching  all  the  people  hurry 
up  and  down  the  street.  Ah,  there  was  the  Castle  carriage ! 
Perhaps  the  old  Countess  was  inside  it.  He  had  only  seen 
her  once,  at  some  ser^nce  in  the  Cathedral  to  which  his 
mother  had  taken  him,  but  she  had  made  a  great  impres- 
sion on  him  with  her  snow-white  hair.  He  had  heard 
people  speak  of  her  as  "a.  wicked  old  woman."  Perhaps 
she  was  inside  the  carriage  .  .  .  but  he  only  saw  the 
Castle  coachman  and  footman  and  the  coronet  on  the 
door.  It  rolled  slowly  up  the  hill  with  its  fine  air  of 
commanding  the  whole  world — then  it  disappeared  around 
the  comer  of  the  Close. 

Jeremy  decided  then  that  he  would  go  home  across  the 
Green  and  down  Orchard  Lane.  He  had  a  wish  to  enter 
the  Cathedral  for  a  moment ;  such  a  visit  would,  after  all, 
complete  the  round  of  his  experiences.  He  had  never 
entered  the  Cathedral  alone,  and  now,  as  he  saw  it  facing 
him,  so  vast  and  majestic  and  quiet,  across  the  sun- 
drenched green,  he  felt  a  sudden  fear  and  awe.  He  found 
a  ring  in  a  stone  near  the  west  end  through  which  he 
might  fasten  Hamlet's  lead,  then,  slowly  pushing  back  the 
heavy  door,  he  passed  inside.  The  Cathedral  was  utterly 
quiet.  The  vast  nave,  stained  with  reflections  of  purple 
and  green  and  ruby,  was  vague  and  unsubstantial,  all  the 
little  wooden  chairs  huddled  together  to  the  right  and  left, 
leaving  a  great  path  that  swept  up  to  the  High  Altar  under 
shafts  of  light  that  fell  like  searchlights  from  the  windows. 
The  tombs  and  the  statues  peered  dimly  from  the  shadow. 


HAMLET  WAITS  297 

and  the  great  east  end  window,  with  its  deep  purple  light, 
seemed  to  draw  the  whole  nave  up  into  its  heart  and  hold 
it  there.  All  was  space  and  silence,  light  and  dusk ;  a  little 
doll  of  a  verger  moved  in  the  far  distance,  an  old  woman, 
so  quiet  that  she  seemed  only  a  shadow,  passed  him,  wiping 
the  little  chairs  with  a  duster. 

It  seemed  to  Jeremy  that  he  had  never  been  in  the 
Cathedral  before;  he  stood  there,  breathless,  as  though  in 
a  moment  something  must  inevitably  happen.  Although 
he  did  not  think  of  it,  the  moment  was  one  of  a  sequence 
that  had  come  to  him  during  the  year — his  entry  into  the 
theatre  with  his  uncle,  his  first  conversation  with  the  sea- 
captain,  the  hour  when  his  mother  had  been  so  ill,  the 
evening  on  the  beach  when  Charlotte  had  been  frightened, 
the  time  when  Hamlet  had  been  lost  and  he  had  slept 
with  him  under  a  tree.  All  these  moments  had  been 
something  more  than  merely  themselves,  had  had  some- 
thing behind  them  or  inside  them  for  which  simply  they 
stood  as  words  stand  for  pictures.  lie  analysed,  of  course, 
nothing,  being  a  perfectly  healthy  small  boy,  but  if  after- 
wards he  looked  back  these  were  the  moments  that  he  saw 
as  one  sees  stations  on  a  journey.  One  day  he  would  know 
for  what  they  stood. 

He  simply  now  waited  there  as  though  he  expected 
something  to  happen.  Thoughts  slipped  through  his  mind 
quite  casually,  whether  Hamlet  were  behaving  well  outside, 
what  the  old  lady  did  when  she  was  tired  of  dusting,  who 
the  stone  figure  lying  near  him  might  be,  a  figure  very 
fine  with  his  ruff  and  his  peaked  beard,  his  arms  folded, 
his  toes  pointing  upwards,  whether  the  body  were  inside 
the  stone  like  a  mummy,  or  underneath  the  ground  some- 


298  JEREMY 

wliere;  liow  strangely  different  tlie  nave  looked  now  from 
its  Sunday  sliow,  and  what  fun  it  would  be  to  run  races 
all  tlie  way  down  and  see  who  could  reach  the  golden 
angels  over  the  reredos  first ;  he  felt  no  reverence,  and  yet 
a  deep  reverence,  no  fear,  hut,  nevertheless,  awe;  he  was 
warm  and  happy  and  comfortable,  and  yet  suddenly, 
giving  a  little  shudder,  he  slipped  out  into  the  sunlight, 
released  Hamlet  and  started  for  home. 


II 

Back  again  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  he  felt  that  they 
were  beginning  to  be  aware  of  his  departure. 

''What  shall  we  do  this  evening,  Jeremy — ^your  last 
evening  ?"  said  his  mother. 

Everyone  looked  at  him. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said  uncomfortably.  "Just  as 
usual,  I  suppose." 

"You're  making  him  feel  uncomfortable,"  said  Aunt 
Amy,  who  loved  to  explain  quite  obvious  things.  "You 
want  it  to  be  just  an  ordinary  evening,  dear,  don't  you  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said  again,  hating  his  aunt. 

"I  don't  think  that  quite  the  way  to  speak  to  your  aunt, 
my  son,"  said  his  father.  "We  only  inquire  out  of  kind- 
ness, thinking  to  please  you.  'No,  Mary,  no  more.  Friday 
— one  helping " 

"Jeremy  might  have  .another  as  it's  his  last  day,  I 
suggest,"  said  Aunt  Amy,  who  was  determined  to  be 
pleasant. 

"I  don't  want  any,  thank  you,"  said  Jeremy,  although 
it  was  treacle  pudding,  which  he  loved. 

"Well,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Cole,  "that  we'll  have  high 


HAMLET  WAITS  299 

tea  at  half-past  seven,  and  the  children  shall  stay  up  after- 
wards and  we'll  have  'Midshipman  Easy.'  " 

Jeremy  loved  his  mother  intensely  at  that  moment.  How 
did  she  know  so  exactly  what  was  right?  She  made  so 
little  disturbance,  was  so  quiet  and  was  never  angry,  and 
yet  she  was  always  right  when  the  others  were  always 
wrong.  She  knew  that  above  all  things  he  loved  high  tea 
— fish  pie  and  boiled  eggs  and  tea  and  jam  and  cake — 
a  horrible  meal  that  his  later  judgment  would  utterly 
condemn,  but  nevertheless  something  so  cosy  and  so  com- 
fortable that  no  later  meal  would  ever  be  able  to  rival  it  in 
those  qualities. 

"Oh,  that  will  be  lovely!"  he  said,  his  face  shining 
all  over. 

Nevertheless,  as  the  afternoon  advanced  a  strange  new 
sense  of  insecurity,  unhappiness  and  forlomness  crept 
increasingly  upon  him.  He  realised  that  he  had  that 
morning  said  good-bye  to  the  town,  and  now  he  felt  as 
though  he  had,  in  some  way,  hurt  or  insulted  it. 

And,  all  the  afternoon,  he  was  saying  farewell  to  the 
house.  He  did  not  wander  from  room  to  room,  but  rather 
sat  up  in  the  schoolroom  pretending  to  mend  a  fishing  rod 
which  Mr.  Monk  had  given  him  that  summer.  He  did  not 
really  care  about  the  rod — he  was  not  even  thinking  of  it. 
He  heard  all  the  sounds  of  the  house  as  he  sat  there.  He 
could  tell  all  the  clocks,  that  one  booming  softly  the  half 
hours  was  in  his  mother's  bedroom,  there  was  a  rattle  and 
a  whirr  and  there  came  the  cuckoo-clock  on  the  stairs,  there 
was  the  fast,  cheap  careless  chatter  of  the  little  clock  on  the 
schoolroom  mantelpiece,  there  was  the  whisper  of  Miss 
Jones's  watch  which  she  had  put  out  on  the  table  to  mark 
the  time  of  Mary's  sewing  by.    There  were  all  the  regular 


300  JEREMY 

sounds  of  the  house.  The  distant  closing  of  doors,  deep 
do%vn  in  the  heart  of  the  house  someone  was  using  a  sewing 
iiiachine  somewhere,  voices  came  up  out  of  the  void  and 
faded  again,  someone  whistled,  someone  sang.  His  gloom 
increased.  He  was  exchanging  a  world  he  knew  for  a 
world  that  he  did  not  know,  and  he  could  not  escape  the 
feeling  that  he  was,  in  some  way,  insulting  this  world  that 
he  was  leaving.  He  bothered  himself  all  the  afternoon 
with  unnecessary  stupid  affairs  to  cover  his  deep  discom- 
fort. He  whistled  carelessly  and  out  of  tune,  he  poked 
the  fire  and  walked  about.  He  was  increasingly  aware  of 
Hamlet  and  Mary.  Mary  was  determined  so  hard  that 
she  would  show  no  emotion  at  all  that  she  was  a  painful 
sight  to  witness.  She  scarcely  spoke  to  him,  and  only 
answered  in  monosyllables  if  he  asked  her  something. 

And  Hamlet  had  suddenly  discovered  that  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  house  was  unusual.  He  had  expected,  in  the 
first  place,  to  be  taken  for  a  walk  that  afternoon;  then 
his  master  was  very  busy  doing  nothing,  which  was  most 
unusual.  Then  at  tea  time  his  worst  suspicions  were  con- 
firmed. Jeremy  suddenly  made  a  fuss  of  him,  pouring  hia 
tea  into  his  saucer,  giving  him  a  piece  of  bread  and  jam 
and  an  extra  lump  of  sugar.  Hamlet  drank  his  tea  and 
ate  his  bread  and  jam  thoughtfully.  They  were  very  nice, 
but  what  was  the  matter  ? 

He  looked  up  through  his  hair  and  discovered  that  his 
master's  eyes  were  restless  and  unhappy,  and  that  he  was 
thinking  of  things  that  disturbed  him.  He  went  away 
to  the  fire  and,  sitting  on  his  haunches,  gazing  in  his 
metaphysical  way  at  the  flames,  considered  the  matter. 
Jeremy  came  over  to  him  and,  drawing  him  back  to  him, 
laid  his  head  upon  his  knee  and  so  held  him.    Hamlet  did 


HAMLET  WAITS  301 

not  move,  save  occasionally  to  sigh,  and,  once  or  twice,  to 
snap  in  a  sudden  way  that  he  had  at  an  imaginary  fly.  He 
thought  that  in  all  probability  his  master  had  been  pun- 
ished for  something,  and  in  this  he  was  deeply  sympathetic, 
never  seeing  why  his  master  need  be  punished  for  anything 
and  resenting  the  stupidity  of  human  beings  with  their 
eternal  desire  to  be,  in  some  way  or  other,  asserting  their 
authority. 

Gradually,  in  front  of  the  hot  fire,  both  boy  and  dog 
fell  asleep.  Jeremy's  dreams  were  confused,  bewildered, 
distressing;  he  was  struggling  to  find  something,  was  al- 
ways climbing  higher  and  higher  to  discover  it,  only  to 
be  told  that,  in  the  end,  he  was  in  the  place  where  he  had 
begun. 

Hamlet's  dream  was  of  an  enormous  succulent  bone  that 
was  pulled  away  from  him  so  soon  as  he  snapped  at  it. 

They  both  awoke  with  a  start  to  find  that  it  was  time 
'  for  high  tea. 

Ill 

Throughout  the  evening  Jeremy  was  more  and  more 
lonely.  He  had  never  before  felt  so  deep  an  affection  for 
the  family  and  never  been  so  utterly  unable  to  express  it. 
It  was  as  though,  during  the  whole  year  he  had,  by  his 
own  will,  been  slipping  away  from  them,  and  now  they  had 
gone  too  far  for  him  to  call  them  back. 

He  sat  on  the  floor  at  his  mother's  feet  whilst  she  read 
"Midshipman  Easy."  It  was  all  so  cosy,  the  room  was  so 
comfortable  with  all  the  familiar  pictures  and  photogi'aphs 
and  books,  and  Helen  and  Mary  diligently  sewing,  and 
Hamlet  stretched  out  in  front  of  the  fire,  his  nose  on  his 
paws — six  months  ago  Jeremy  would  have  felt  utterly 


302  JEEEMY 

and  absolutely  part  of  it.  ISTow  he  was  outside  it  and,  at 
the  same  time,  was  inside  nothing  else.  It  might  be  that 
in  a  week's  time  he  would  be  so  familiar  with  his  new 
world  that  he  would  be  as  happy  as  a  cricket — ^he  did  not 
know.  He  only  knew  that  at  this  moment  he  would  have 
given  all  that  he  had  to  fling  his  arms  round  his  mother's 
neck,  to  be  hugged  and  kissed  and  nursed  by  her,  and 
that,  at  the  same  time,  he  would  have  died  rather  than  do 
such  a  thing. 

The  evening  came  to  an  end.  The  girls  got  up  and  said 
good-night.  His  mother  kissed  him,  holding  him  perhaps 
for  a  moment  longer  than  usual,  but  at  that  same  instant 
she  said: 

''Oh,  I  must  remind  Ella  about  the  half-past  seven 
breakfast  again,  she  always  has  to  be  told  everything 
twice." 

The  girls  went  on  ahead,  Jeremy  and  Hamlet  following 
close  behind.  Jeremy  found  himself  alone  in  the  school- 
room, where  the  fire  was  very  low,  giving  only  little  spurts 
and  flashes  that  ran  like  golden  snakes  suddenly  through 
the  darkness. 

Moved  by  an  impulse,  he  went  to  the  toy-cupboard  and, 
opening  it,  put  his  hand  quite  by  chance  on  the  toy  village. 
The  toy  village !  He  laid  it  out  and  spread  it  on  the  floor. 
He  could  not  see,  but  he  knew  every  piece  by  heart,  and 
he  laid  it  all  out,  the  church  and  the  flower  garden,  and 
the  ISToah's  house  and  the  village  street,  the  animals  and 
the  iSToahs.  What  centuries  ago  that  birthday  was,  what 
worlds  away!     How  excited  he  had  been,  and  now ! 

With  a  sudden  impatient  gesture  he  tumbled  the  pieces 
over  on  to  their  sides,  then  quickly,  as  though  he  were 


HAMLET  WAITS  303 

afraid  of  the  dark,  went  into  his  bedroom  and  began  to 
undress. 

IV 

In  the  morning  events  moved  too  quickly  for  thought. 
He  had  still  the  same  lonely  pain  at  his  heart,  but  now 
he  simply  was  not  given  time  to  consider  it. 

His  father  called  him  into  the  study.  He  gave  him 
ten  shillings  and  a  new  prayer-book.  Jeremy  knew  that 
he  was  trjang  to  come  close  to  him  and  be  a  friend  of  a 
new  kind  to  him. 

He  heard  in  a  distance  such  words  as:  "...  a  new 
world,  full  of  trial  and  temptation.  God  sees  us.  .  .  . 
Work  at  your  Latin  .  .  .  cricket  and  football  .  .  .  pray- 
ers every  night.  .  .  ."  But  he  could  feel  no  emotion,  noth- 
ing but  terror  lest  some  sudden  stupid  emotional  scene 
should  occur.  ^Nothing  occurred.  He  kissed  his  father 
and  went. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  just  as  he  came  down  in  his  hat 
and  coat  and  heard  that  the  cab  was  there,  his  restraint 
melted ;  he  was  free  and  impulsive  and  natural.  He  kissed 
Mary,  telling  her: 

"You  may  have  my  toy  village.     I'd  like  you  to 

Yes,  rather.    I  mean  it." 

He  kissed  Helen  and  Barbara,  and  then  held  to  his 
mother,  not  caring  whether  all  the  world  was  there  to  see. 
The  old  life  was  going  with  him !  He  was  not  leaving 
it  after  all.  The  town  and  the  house,  and  all  the  things 
to  which  he  had  thought  that  he  had  said  good-bye,  were 
going  with  him. 

Hamlet !  He  found  the  dog  struggling  to  get  into  the 
cab.     That  was  more  than  he  could  stand.     He  was  not 


304  JEREMY 

going  to  make  a  fool  of  himself,  but  the  only  way  to  ba 
secure  was  to  get  into  the  cab  and  hide  there.  He  caught 
^Hamlet's  head,  gave  it  a  kiss,  then  jumped  in,  catching  a 
last  glimpse  of  the  family  grouped  at  the  door,  the  servants 
at  the  window,  the  old  garden  with  the  dead  leaves  gath- 
ered upon  it,  Hamlet  held,  struggling,  in  Mary's  arms. 

He  choked  down  his  sobs,  felt  the  ten  shillings  in  his 
pocket,  then  with  a  mighty  resolve,  to  which  it  seemed 
that  the  labours  of  Hercules  were  as  nothing,  leaned  out 
and  waved  his  hand. 

The  cab  rolled  off. 

Hamlet  lay  down  upon  the  mat  just  inside  the  hall-door. 
Someone  tried  to  pull  him  away.  He  growled,  showing  his 
teeth.  His  master  had  gone  out.  He  would  wait  for  his 
return — and  no  one  should  move  him. 


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